Time of the Season
by geekmama
Summary: A series of drabbles and ficlets set during and post Season Four (and can be read in the correct order at AO3 where I am also geekmama).
1. A Knock at the Door

_**~ A Knock at the Door ~**_

* * *

She's barely slept, and looks it, but it's probably just Mrs. Parks from down the hall, needing an egg, or a half cup of sugar, so she shuffles out in her fuzzy slippers, pulls tight the tie of her old dressing gown, tries to finger-comb her hair a bit. Pastes on a smile.

But it's not Mrs. Parks, and the smile vanishes.

Sherlock.

He hasn't knocked in years. In the early days, he'd merely climbed in the window, or picked the lock. That was before she'd finally given up and given him his own key.

But today he knocked.

For obvious reasons.

She's barely begun to register her own feelings when she _sees_ his, written plain on his face for a change.

He's a good actor. But not that good.

"Are you alright?" she asks, the habit of caring too strong, swamping every other emotion.

"I meant it." The words enunciated clearly. "And I'm sorry."

She processes this for a long moment. Then asks, "For… loving? Or for the call?" Amazed at herself for actually being able to voice such honestly.

A flash of impatience crosses his face. "The call. I have to explain." He hesitates, then adds, "But it does… complicate things. Doesn't it?"

He looks so uncharacteristically uncertain at this last that she almost laughs ( _hysteria?_ ). "Maybe. Yes." She'd been focused on his face, but now gives him a swift once over, and frowns. She's seen him more disheveled, but… "Your hands. What happened?"

But raising her eyes again, she shivers. There's something… some emotion… some _memory_ tearing at him.

He closes his own eyes. Tries to pull himself together.

More or less succeeds. "I have to explain!" he says again, choking over the words, and moves suddenly to grab her wrist in one damaged hand.

The door slams shut behind them as he pulls her toward the bedroom.

 **o-o-o**

Some time later she is lying still beside his exhausted, sleeping form. Watching over him. Guarding his rest.

Wondering that such a long, black, cold night has been completely, _miraculously_ transformed in the warm light of this new day.

~.~


	2. Defying Expectation

_**~ Defying Expectation ~**_

* * *

"How do we do this?" he asks her later. "How do _I_ do this?"

They are sitting at the table, now, tea and biscuits between them. He looks less exhausted, though still troubled. Yet when he meets her eyes, there's a sort of visceral relief.

"You do it day by day. Moment by moment." She breaks it down in the simplest terms. The way she's loved him all these years. "But there's a lot for you to do right now. I'll be here."

She's glad she cleaned up a bit, because his gaze grows more intense, the wheels turning. Wondering at her patience, mercy, and maybe her wisdom - she has been a little wise, has she not? Wondering, too, when and how to go about beginning a physical relationship - she sees where his eyes linger, and the faint color touching the sculpted planes of that beloved face.

Her heart swells, even as her lips twitch against a smile. "I'll be here," she says again.

He reaches, takes her hand. "My flat's a mess," he muses.

Her heart aches anew at the destruction of 221B. "I know. Terrible."

But he shrugs. "It is what it is. Things are replaceable."

"Yes. I can help you with that, maybe. Shopping and the like."

"Please!" He starts to smile, but it's short lived. "Then there's my sister. And my parents." He grimaces slightly. "I don't envy Mycroft. Our mother on a wrathful rampage is a sight to behold. From a distance, if at all possible." And then his expression lightens as he focuses on her again, his smile reappearing and now reaching his eyes. "You'll like her, I think."

Five words, spoken so lightly, but they almost make her weep with happiness.

His brows twitch together. He sees… everything. "Come here," he says, his voice suddenly gentle. He tugs her hand.

She does, and he draws her close, then down, onto his lap. Kisses her, tentatively. Then less so.

Stray tears and laughter. Scent... taste... touch. Warm and solid, holding her as she curls against him.

It's poetry. _Very Heaven._

She feels young again.

~.~


	3. Incalculable

_**~ Incalculable ~**_

* * *

 _Very Heaven_.

And yet, still seated on his lap, Molly becomes aware that Sherlock, too, desires something more than kisses. More of earth, and instinct. Something all too human.

He tenses, and she shifts carefully, leaning back slightly to look at him. There's the oddest expression on his face: a sort of hopeful lust overlaid with chagrin and a dash of annoyance.

"Are you… alright?" she asks, trying not to smile, and mostly succeeding.

"Yes...no. Perhaps you'd better get up."

She does, but she takes up his hand. Raises it to her lips.

"Molly-"

"Do you want to?" she asks, simply.

He stares. Buffering?

So she asks again. "Do you?"

"I... I want it to be right."

"Of course," she tells him, surprised at how calm she sounds. "It will be."

 **o-o-o**

The bedroom is full of lovely shadows in late afternoon. Molly lies watching them, her arms about her consulting detective, now spent and dozing, still half covering her, his tousled head tucked against her breast and shoulder. His forehead is just about within reach to kiss, but she doesn't want to disturb him. There's time enough. She smiles.

Presently he stirs, however, and soon she senses that there's something amiss with him. "Sherlock?"

He rolls off of her, onto his side, and she scoots down until they are face to face on the pillows. He blinks at her in the dim light, unsettled.

"What it is?" she whispers, apprehensive.

He makes an effort, pulls himself together. "I hurt you."

"No!" She's beginning to understand. "I mean... a little. But not in a _bad_ way."

"You weren't ready. I should have stopped."

"You would have, if I'd wanted you to. I didn't. It's what you needed."

He still looks regretful.

She sets her palm against his cheek. "Sherlock, don't be sorry. It's fine. I'm fine. You can't calculate everything, not things like love and passion."

And finally he sighs. "Not love, certainly," he says softly. "As for passion…" He tenderly brushes her messy hair behind her ear as a rather devilish smile curves his lips. "One can but try."

~.~


	4. Swotting Up

_**~ Swotting Up ~**_

* * *

"What are you reading now?" murmurs Molly, a sleepy smile in her voice.

" _The Joy of Sex_. It's an older publication, but most of the material is still relevant, I believe."

She chuckles and burrows her nose against his blanketed hip, and he absently strokes her hair, beautifully fanned out over her pillow.

She's been sleeping the sleep of the justly exhausted these last couple of hours, while he's been propped against the headboard, a pile of books and magazines on the table beside him, his laptop open, continuing the rigorous programme of research and revision he's embarked upon in his effort to ensure Molly's happiness and thereby his own.

Their first sexual encounter took place some twelve hours after the Sherrinford debriefing, but, due to his emotional state and lack of recent experience, he felt the event had been less than optimal. Too uncontrolled. Too quickly over to give Molly much satisfaction. _She_ had not complained, and the second endeavor had, admittedly, been an improvement. But a man of intelligence and energy, in his prime, and newly committed to what would probably be the most important relationship of his life, should be capable of real excellence. Instinct and his powers of deduction will only take him so far toward that goal.

Conveniently, it's been pouring rain. Three solid days of winter storms, giving them all a respite. Work on his flat must wait; Mummy's wrath need not be borne until Friday at least. The weather has literally put a damper on any outside activities, and since Molly's been given a few days off, thanks to a word to Bart's from Mycroft, there's been no need to disrupt their idyll.

A flash at the edge of sight, an ominous rumble of thunder, and Sherlock's attention strays from the tome in front of him as Molly cuddles closer, eyes wide.

"I was frightened of thunder, when I was a little girl," she remarks, too casually.

He raises a brow. "As long ago as that?"

She flushes. "You might try to take my mind off it."

"Perhaps. What do you think of this position?" He shows her the illustration he's been studying.

She gives a tired, somewhat discouraged sigh.

He chuckles and sets the book aside. "Poor little Molly," he says, with spurious sympathy, sliding down beside her, turning to her, rubbing his nose against hers.

"I'm not poor! I'm not! I'm not!" she insists in mock petulance. And then she's laughing beneath his kiss.

It's long and sweet and infinitely better than anything he's come across in his reading.

"Mmmm…" she murmurs against his lips, entranced, and when she finally can, says, "No, not poor after all. Not in the least."

~.~


	5. Yellow Chair

_**~ Yellow Chair ~**_

* * *

"Oh, I like this!"

"A yellow chair?" Sherlock gives her a look. "You would."

"It's not yellow," Molly objects. "It's more of a soft gold, well within your color palette-"

"My _color palette?_ " He rolls his eyes.

"Yes! You _do_ have one. Such a pretty brocade." She carefully sits on the chair, bounces some. "Very comfortable, and it'll look lovely in that space between the doors. And it's not too large - easy to move when you have lots of guests."

He raises one brow.

She smirks. "You know Mrs. Hudson will want to have a housewarming."

"It's _my_ house!"

"It's your _flat_ , her house. And you wouldn't deny her such a treat, when it was you who got it blown up. _Again_."

He starts to protest, but gives it up. Sniffs, resigned. "Get up and let me try it."

He makes a show of it; studies the chair's construction; frowns over the color; peers about the shop as though hoping to catch sight of something preferable. Finally he says, grudgingly, "Alright. But only if we get that, too." He points to a small, many-drawered oval cabinet sitting about ten feet away, built of wood that's a deeper gold than the chair.

They walk over to inspect the cabinet. It's beautifully crafted; the drawers are solid and slide smoothly. "They lock, too," says Sherlock with approval. "And… _look at this!_ " He grins in delight at his discovery of a secret compartment in the top drawer.

"Just what you need," Molly says, very wry.

He looks over his shoulder at her. "You know I'm doing well."

She softens her expression. "I know."

"But for emergency cigarettes-"

"Sherlock!"

"Or other things. _You_ know."

"I suppose." She looks round the back and finds the price."Expensive!"

He straightens, content. "That settles it. Mycroft's paying, and I _deserve_ a cabinet like this. And we'll get your chair, too. That's not precisely dirt cheap, either."

Guilt assails her. "Oh, dear. Do you think he'll mind?"

He starts to laugh, but seeing her expression, damps down his glee. "For you? No, Molly. He won't mind at all."

~.~


	6. Semantics

_**~ Semantics ~**_

 _ **For the 'Passing' prompt**_

* * *

The Housewarming. Molly was quite serious about it, firmly maintaining that to deny Mrs. Hudson the convivial gathering would be as churlish as anything Sherlock had done in his former life, the one where he'd been content, at best, to skate along in the guise of a high functioning sociopath, and at worst… well, that didn't really bear discussion so soon after the tragedy and trauma they'd all been through in the last six months. What it boiled down to was that Molly could not be swayed by rational argument.

It had briefly put him into something of a strop.

A vast herd of people traipsing through his newly renovated sanctuary? _Touching_ things. And making _noise_. And generally just being _curious_. But...

"My God! I'm turning into _Mycroft!_ " he exclaimed, suddenly horrified.

And Molly's eyes lit with laughter. "You mean the _Get Off My Lawn_ mindset of middle age?"

Sherlock scowled at her.

And of course it wasn't only the completion of the work on his flat that would be celebrated. The whole building had sustained damage. Speedy's had been closed for weeks, and even Mrs. Hudson had gotten a new kitchen out of the debacle.

So Molly had kissed him and murmured very sympathetically, Hudders had brought him hot tea and a plate of bourbon creams, and then the two had proceeded to sit down at his new kitchen table (as yet unsullied by any element of scientific enquiry) to compile a guest list that seemed to include half the population of London.

They also created an extensive and varied menu. Sherlock's preferences played a significant role in this, and John had shown up in time to put in requests for himself and Rosie. Sherlock reflected that they would at least be well fed, though entertaining the bulk of his acquaintance _en masse_ would hardly inspire a hearty appetite.

Yet, ultimately, the event had not been quite as severe a trial as he'd anticipated. The guests had drifted in and out over the course of a six hour open house, and were rarely too numerous for Sherlock's liking. When the company did expand to impact Sherlock's comfort zone, Molly would materialize beside him, the perfect hostess, deflecting unwanted attention with kindness, but surprising efficiency. She was Molly, but even more so, her newfound happiness and confidence merely enhancing the sweet, capable woman he'd known for so long. Sherlock found himself fascinated by this new aspect of his… his what?

 _Girlfriend_ meant he was her _Boyfriend_ , and the terms were far too juvenile for either of them. _Lover_? _Inamorata_? True, but faintly unsavory and as such quite unacceptable, since he considered their intimate relations little less than a holy thing (and at certain points the name of God was invoked often enough to lend some credence to this view). _His Pathologist_ , her title for a number of years, failed to take into account their current situation. And _Fiancé,_ besides being almost as insipid as _Girlfriend_ , was putting the cart before the horse - and possibly presumed too much.

Assailed by this line of thought In the midst of the party, he found himself growing quiet and frowning as he watched her. It took a sharp poke of John's elbow to bring him out of it.

"Alright there, mate?" John's brow and lip quirked.

Sherlock looked down his nose at him, said, coldly, "Fine," and wandered out to the kitchen to collect himself and, incidentally, another of Mrs. Hudson's mince tarts.

 **o-o-o**

Greg Lestrade had shown up with Hopkins early on. They were technically on duty and had to stick to tea, but they shared some of the details of an interesting case they were working, which pleased Sherlock. A great many NSY acquaintances began to pop in after that, including Anderson (who nudged Lestrade and said, "What did I tell you?" on observing Sherlock and Molly's subtle but evident intimacy), and even Sally Donovan.

Donovan hadn't darkened Sherlock's doorway in years, and certainly never in the name of friendship. She looked about, nodding approval of the changes, and then was introduced to Rosie Watson for the first time and became almost humanly enthralled. Rosie, cuddled against John's shoulder in a dreamy, post-nap state, had smiled noncommittally around the thumb in her mouth, but then caught sight of Sherlock, who was standing off to the side, and instantly lit up. The little darling strained away from her father, chirping, "Unca!" and Sherlock, never able to resist that adorable spark of Mary's fire, took her from John and grinned as she gently patted his cheeks with her tiny, chubby hands.

"Another fan," Donovan muttered with a roll of her eyes. But there was a genuine smile in them, as well.

Bill Wiggins made a rather furtive appearance, shying away from those guests he recognized as police officers and lighting in the kitchen where he accepted a cup of tea from the tolerant Mrs. Hudson. "You'd better take some of these, too," she said, eyeing him up and down and pressing a packet on him, a half dozen of her miniature Cornish pasties, still warm from the oven. He pocketed them with a word of thanks. Then some new guests arrived, and, with a nod to Sherlock, Bill took his leave, sidling crablike from the room.

The new guests were Sherlock's mother and father.

Sherlock was seated in his chair, bouncing Rosie Watson on his knee when they arrived, and Mummy absolutely lit up at the sight. She came to him and said pointedly, "You look quite natural, dandling that baby. You might consider making arrangements to acquire one of your own. It would please me, and give you something to think about besides yourself."

Sherlock replied with facetious humility, "Yes, Mummy."

She stared at him, brows lifting.

Sherlock exchanged a glance with his father, who turned to his wife, saying, "And that's enough of that, don't you think, my dear? Come, let's say hello to Martha Hudson. I find it hard to believe she's still willing to house our son, but she was always an intrepid creature."

Sherlock, remembering the manner in which Mrs. Hudson had escorted him to meet John on a certain day a few weeks ago, muttered, "Lord, you really have no idea."

His parents wandered out to the kitchen and lingered for the next few minutes, regaled with cups of John's punch, the fruits of Mrs. Hudson's prowess in cookery, and gossip. Yet all the while Sherlock felt sharp eyes upon him and, when Molly came over to speak to him, he deliberately gratified his mother (and, not incidentally, Molly) with an interaction that he knew would suggest nothing but good things to her knowing eye. After Molly took up Rosie and carried her off to be introduced to some of John's friends from the clinic who'd just arrived, Sherlock rose from his chair and wandered toward his mother, joining the party in the kitchen.

"Another of these, I think," Sherlock said, picking up his fifth mince tart. "Hudders ordinarily makes them only for Christmas."

"I quite thought it _was_ Christmas," his mother said quietly, her cheeks actually pinking as she looked at him in wonder.

"Patience!" he said softly, with a sly smirk and a brief, one-armed hug. Her astonishment was such that, as planned, she was deprived of speech.

And then Mycroft arrived, and she could only gape at this fresh miracle.

It was the British Government twice over, for Mummy's eldest was accompanied by Lady Smallwood, now a high ranking member of parliament, but formerly known as Alicia Hart, daughter of a family whose property was situated not many miles from Musgrave. The teenaged Miss Hart had several times served as babysitter to the Holmes offspring, much to ten-year-old Mycroft's chagrin at the time. Apparently he'd recovered from his resentment.

"Robbing the cradle, Allie?" Mummy asked by way of greeting, after Mycroft had withdrawn to consult with Mrs. Hudson on the availability of champagne flutes for the two bottles of Roederer Cristal he'd brought.

Lady Smallwood seemed unperturbed. "Why? Do you object?"

Mummy opened her mouth, shut it again, then said, "Alicia, you must be aware that I support anything that will conduce to my sons' happiness and humanity."

Lady Smallwood nodded. "Yes. I thought as much. I think you would be pleased, were you fully aware of the situation."

Mummy arched a brow. "Should I be fully aware?"

"Oh, no. That would hardly be discreet." She smiled. "No one has called me Allie in years, it does take me back." She directed a considering look at Sherlock. "You were still in nappies, I believe."

"Aaaand that's my cue to depart," he said, with a slight grimace.

He ignored their amusement as best he could as he headed across the room to where Molly, still holding Rosie, was chatting with Mike Stamford and his wife. Mike looked up, beaming a greeting, and Molly turned to him, her beautiful eyes wide and happy - and filled with love.

A rush of emotion threatened to swamp Sherlock, but he mastered it, resisting the urge to kiss her, only setting a hand lightly at her waist as he held out the other to Stamford. "Good to see you, Mike. And is this Mrs. Stamford?" He looked the remarkably pretty little lady swiftly up and down. "You're the mother of six? How can that be?"

Mrs. Stamford displayed blushing gratification and not a little surprise at this. "Oh, yes," she said, with a slight laugh. "They keep me young, you know."

"Evidently," Sherlock said, and took the hand she was shyly holding out. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He gave the hand a slight squeeze as he shook it.

John came over then and took Rosie, and as Sherlock and Molly turned away in search of champagne, Mrs. Stamford was heard to say, "Why, he's not at all as you've described, Michael! He's a lovely gentleman!"

Molly gave a slight snort of laughter and looked up at Sherlock. He smirked back at her complacently.

 **o-o-o**

At nine on the dot, Sherlock gently but firmly chivied the remaining guests out the door and collapsed into his chair by the fire for a few minutes. Molly, who was not a mere guest, continued washing up, cheerily singing and swaying to whatever was coming from her earbuds as she did so. Sherlock sat watching her for a few minutes, but presently guilt set its spurs in his soul and he dragged himself up again. Mrs. Hudson had retreated to her bed to sleep off the effects of a surfeit of punch an hour since, so there was no other help available.

"I'll dry," he said, picking up a towel.

The singing and swaying came to an abrupt halt. Molly pulled out her earbuds and stared at him. " _You'll_ dry?"

"How hard can it be?" he said, with excessive hauteur.

She grinned. "I'm sure you're fully capable. And always have been, in fact, though this may be the first time in living memory-"

" _Molly_ ," he said, a warning in his voice.

She raised her sudsy hands in surrender. "You're right. One must not look a gift horse in the mouth." She went back to her washing, and, presently, to her humming and swaying, too, though she did not replace the earbuds. A smile curved her lips as he worked beside her.

When she was almost finished, she said to him, "Did you have a good time?"

"What do you think?" he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm.

She grinned. "I think you did. You just consider it beneath your dignity to admit it."

He sniffed.

She went back to the last of the dishes, then drained the water and rinsed the sink.

Finally, he said, "I didn't have an entirely awful time."

"Oh, Sherlock," she laughed, neatly folding the dishcloth and laying it aside, "You know you had a lovely time, just as we all did. All your friends and your family - even Mycroft was smiling. And he brought that delicious champagne!"

"Certainly that was the least he could do."

"And your mother and father are wonderful!"

"Mmm." He eyed Molly thoughtfully. "You wouldn't consider an elopement, would you?"

She turned to him, swiftly. " _What?_ "

"I mean… it's not the idea of a wedding, _per se_. Apparently I can tolerate a moderate crowd of friends and relations without losing my mind. But… the semantics."

She frowned. "Semantics?"

"Molly, I'm approaching forty. I'll be damned if I'll be anyone's _boyfriend_. And fiance seems absurd, too."

"Sherlock, is this your idea of a proposal?" She looked almost amused. Almost.

"No, of course not. I mean… I thought it was more or less a given. Don't you want to marry me? It seemed to me… even with everything…" His voice trailed off, and he suddenly wondered if he, too, had imbibed too much punch. It had all made sense in his head, but somehow when spoken aloud…

But Molly suddenly caught up his hand, then bent and placed a tender kiss on his fingers. Horrified, he tried to snatch it away, but she held it fast.

"Molly, don't," he said, firmly. "If anyone's hand is to be kissed it's yours, not mine."

"Sherlock Holmes, I'll kiss you _anywhere I please_. You owe me that, at the very least."

"Anywhere?" he said, provocatively. But his heart swelled, thinking of what he owed her. "I suppose. When you put it that way. It's fortunate I can trust you not to abuse your power."

"Don't be so sure of that," she said, and drew him down for a kiss.

He took her in his arms, and complied to her unspoken request, gently and tenderly at first, though passion claimed him soon enough. Everything he wanted… everything he needed. The phrase _grit on the lens_ came to him, and he shuddered at what he might have lost through that nonsense. He dragged his lips from hers and whispered against her ear, "I love you, Molly Hooper. Will you marry me?"

She pulled a little away, with a joyous gasp - or it might have been a chuff of laughter. There were tears in her eyes as she smiled up at him. "Yes. I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes."

His heart was like to float away.

Then she added, "But must we elope? Just a _small_ wedding…"

"A _Heart_ -Warming?"

Perhaps his sanity and intellect had been more profoundly affected than he'd realized.

But she only grinned, kissed his hand again, and said, "Precisely."

~.~


	7. Needs Must

_**~ Needs Must ~**_

 _For the 'Snow' prompt_

* * *

 **Back from the hinterlands, case closed. - SH**

 **:-) - MHx**

Sherlock gave a chuff of amusement at the emoji and the little x, not to mention the rapidity of her reply. He'd been too long without his darling pathologist.

She'd been on the schedule at Bart's for five nights of the graveyard shift ( _ha!_ ), with no time to cater to the needs of consulting detectives since she'd have to actually sleep in between - or try to. Sleeping during the day wasn't really her strong suit. He was pretty sure she had thought it a blessing when he'd been called out of town on an investigation. And absence did make the heart grow fonder, after all.

 _His_ heart, and, indeed, every inch of him, was feeling _very_ fond, and tonight's shift should be her last for several days. Just in time, too. There was a storm coming in, a real winter storm with snow predicted, even in London. After she'd recovered somewhat from the effects of the last five nights, he was fairly certain she'd be willing to hole up with him for the duration and cater to his _needs_ in the most delightful manner possible. Hopefully at 221B.

He'd even allow her to bring her cat.

But first, her recovery period. He popped off another text.

 **Heavy snow predicted, correlating with increased chance of BOREDOM. Can you spare a kidney or two? - SHx**

 **Not at work - MH**

Sherlock gaped a bit at his mobile, then...

 **Did you get off early? - SH**

 **I've caught Rosie's flu. :( - MH**

His brows rose, and a strange combination of concern and alarm settled like a cold mantle over him. Rosie, recently enrolled in nursery school, succumbed to some new virus every other week, it seemed, and Sherlock recalled that the last bout, though short-lived, had been quite severe. Molly had stepped in to watch the ailing toddler for an entire day when Sherlock had dragged John off on yet another case. Apparently this was the result.

He tried to remember the last time Molly had missed work due to illness and found he could not readily do so.

It must be bad.

As well as contagious.

He winced that these thoughts even occurred to him. They were unworthy. He had not yet spoken that vow, _in sickness and in health_ , but really that was a mere formality.

The situation was at least partially his fault, and clearly he was obligated to determine her condition and to offer help as needed. For the love he bore her, there should have been no hesitation on this point. And yet… she loved him, too. She wouldn't want him needlessly exposed. Not to mention the fact that he was wholly ignorant of patient care.

Well, not wholly ignorant. He'd certainly been on the receiving end often enough.

Perhaps she was over the worst of it. Rosie had returned to school within three days, after all. Surely an adult, with a more developed immune system, would recover even more quickly.

He could assist remotely. Have some things delivered. Some Thai food, perhaps, from that little place down the road from her flat - soothing Pad See Ew, or a mildly spicy Tom Kha Gai. And flowers. She'd like flowers. A cheery arrangement, with bright colours. Or even a dozen roses. Even _two_ dozen.

He considered sending her another text. But no. A phone call was required to show the solicitude proper to the occasion.

His first call went to voicemail, which seemed a bad sign. She'd answered his texts readily enough, so obviously she had her mobile close at hand. He grimly made a second attempt, and this time she picked up.

"What?" came her voice, short, muffled, and rather constricted.

Disconcerting. She did not sound delighted in the least. He cleared his throat a bit, then carefully said, "Molly. How… how long have you been ill?"

"Three days."

And then, to Sherlock's horror, there came the sound of a piteous sob through the phone. "Molly?" he said, sharply. Another sob… and then a series. "Molly, what's wrong?" he demanded. "Is it more than just flu?"

The sobs continued, though he could tell she was trying to control them enough to speak. Finally she managed, "Nooo! But… it's _awful_. I'm s-sorry. I can't h-help it."

To Sherlock's credit, after an initial sinking of the heart, his voice was firm, calm, and compassionate: "Don't worry about a thing. I'll be right there."

He'd been through enough in his life to know when the tide was against him.

 **o-o-o**

She looked terrible. Rumpled and red-eyed, half propped against a pile of pillows, an electric heating pad sitting atop her messy hair, cheeks white, lips quivering…

Oh, God. She was going to start crying again.

"Hooper, what the devil have you done to yourself?" he demanded, trying for a nice combination of teasing, sympathy, and provocation. He put his bags down by the door, went over to the bed, and sat down beside her.

"I'm sorry," she said, again, making an effort to pull herself together. "It's my head. It's _so bad_. I've tried _everything!_ " She broke into a fit of coughing, turning away from him with an agonized grimace, her heating pad slipping to one side, unheeded. "You shouldn't have come," she said, when she finally could. "You'll only end up catching it, too."

"No, I won't," he said, with far more confidence than he actually felt. He brushed her hair back behind her ear and frowned at the heat of her skin. "Have you taken your temperature?"

"38. For days."

"Good God! What have you taken for it?"

"Paracetamol. And Oxycodone for my head, but even that's not helping!"

Tears were slipping down her cheeks.

"Good God," he muttered again, and pulled out his mobile to call John.

 **o-o-o**

It was more than two hours before John finally arrived.

"Sorry. Mrs. Green was at the shops, stocking up against this storm. It's already starting to snow."

"Who the devil is Mrs. Green?" Sherlock asked, annoyed and distracted. He'd tried to keep himself busy, feeding Toby, hunting down a vase and arranging the roses he'd brought. Molly had refused the Thai food, but finally consented to sip some juice cut with water, watching him over the top of the glass as he tidied her bedroom and en-suite, unpacked his suitcase. _You can't stay! You'll catch it!_ she'd reiterated in a hoarse moan, but he'd only given her a scathing look and an impatient _Don't be ridiculous!_ , resulting in more tears on her part and more guilt on his.

He'd never seen her weep this much, in all the years of their acquaintance. It was deeply unsettling. Almost frightening.

John raised a brow, but replied, evenly, "Mrs. Green's my neighbor, the one that watches Rosie sometimes, when there's an emergency. Molly qualifies, I take it?"

"Yes. Come and see," Sherlock said, and led the way.

 **o-o-o**

Three quarters of an hour later, he finally closed the door on John, the snow, and the freezing night. He and John had agreed they would keep in touch by text, but John didn't foresee any dire developments ahead. He'd given Molly a couple of jabs, one an antibiotic, the other something that began to work almost immediately to ease her extreme headache, which John suspected was due to a severe attack of sinusitis, one of two complications common to this particular strain of influenza. The other was pneumonia. But John had left her a course of oral antibiotics, to supplement the injection, and seemed fairly certain she'd be on the road to recovery by the time the snow was melting.

That wasn't what was worrying Sherlock, now, however.

He slowly returned to Molly's bedroom. She barely opened her eyes when he entered, but they widened, her alarm increasing, as he crossed the room and sat down beside her on the bed.

"Wh-what?" she stammered.

He shouldn't be doing this - causing her more distress, but in spite of that, he opted for honesty. "You smiled for John - when he came in the room. But not for me. Don't you want me here?"

She gave a helpless bark of laughter that was more like another sob. "Sherlock… I told you! I don't want you exposed to this. And… and I don't want you to _see_ me like this! John's a doctor… it's _different_."

"How is it different? You know I'm not squeamish. Is it vanity, then? God, Molly, you've seen me at _my_ worst too many times to count!"

"It's not _that!_ " she protested, then hesitated. "Well… maybe. I know I look horrible. But I _feel_ horrible, too, so horrible I can't do anything about _looking_ that way!"

"Ah! I see." It was all becoming clear to him. "You need help, but you don't _want_ to need it. Not _my_ help, at least."

"Th-that's not true!"

"Oh, yes, it is," he said, firmly. "I'm the one who comes to _you_ for help. You've _never_ come to me."

She stared at him, chagrin coalescing on her features. She tried then to fight it. "You… you don't want to be here. Not really."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "If you weren't at bloody death's door, Hooper, I'd give you a good shake." He was inwardly amused at her shocked expression, but went quickly on. "Of course I want to be here! I admit I'd prefer you were in the pink and ready to enjoy a few days of snowbound decadence with me, but that doesn't mean I'm at all unwilling to address the issue at hand and do everything in my power to nurse you back to health. You know, sometimes _I like to be needed, too_."

There was a little color in her cheeks now, and she had the grace to look troubled and ashamed as she caught hold of his hand with both of hers. "I… I hadn't thought of it that way," she admitted, sounding close to tears again.

"Well, I forbid you to weep any more, tonight, and you can spend the next few days thinking about it. I'll do my best to make you comfortable while you do so. Are we agreed?"

One tear escaped and slid down her cheek. " _In sickness and in health?_ "

He allowed himself a slight smile. "Yep." He patted her clinging hands, then gently disengaged himself and rose to his feet. "I'm going to heat up some of the Pad See Ew I brought. You're quite sure you don't want any?"

She cleared her throat. "I'll try to eat a little, if you'd like to bring me some," she said in a small voice.

He nodded, extremely pleased, both at her willingness to eat and at the moral advantage he seemed to have gained, however temporarily. He started for the door.

But she spoke again. "Sherlock…"

"Hmmm?" He turned back to her.

"You wouldn't really shake me."

He sighed. "No, of course not. But that ring on your finger represents a fifty/fifty proposition. You need to remember that."

"Yes." She finally smiled at him, just a bit, relaxed against her pillows again, and closed her eyes.

He stood looking at her for a long moment. Thinking what a wonderful, fearful thing was love.

 **o-o-o**

The drug John had given her to ease her aching head was working all too well. She tried to resist, but it felt so good to lay back against the freshly fluffed pillows, to close her eyes, just for a moment…

The bed dipped beside her as someone - _her_ someone, obviously - sat down. She managed to open her eyes again, looking blearily up at him.

"You can't sleep yet," he said. "Here, look at me." He gently tilted her face toward him and then began to wipe it with a damp facecloth, the water so deliciously warm the cloth let off steam in the cool air of the room.

It felt heavenly. She sighed in pure pleasure, letting her eyes drift shut. He was careful, and thorough, and when he was through he blotted the moisture away from her clean skin with a soft, dry towel.

But then he spoke again, that voice she loved, low and edged with fond humor. "No rest for the wicked yet, sweet. Sit up, please."

With a great effort, and his insistent help, she roused herself to do so, wincing at her sore hip (she sometimes thought John was a bit too free with a needle), opening her eyes once more to see what Sherlock would be at.

He had her hairbrush in hand.

"Just for the record," he murmured, as he began to sort out her tangled hair, "you _look_ adorable, not horrible… and I'll thank you not to argue the point… you know how I value truth… and objectivity."

She gave an amused sniff.

"But," he went on, " _feeling_ horrible is really worse… some judicious grooming never comes amiss in these cases… and as you know… my wisdom comes from vast experience. There." He gave a definitive nod as he set the brush down, then eased her gently back against the pillows. "Even more adorable."

She gave a sleepy chuckle. "I love you."

"I know. I love you, too. Do you want the heating pad for your head again?"

"No. It's alright. Thank you."

"All included in the service." His eyes traveled over her, his smile quirking. "A sponge bath tomorrow, perhaps, unless you can stand up long enough for me to help you shower." He waggled his brows suggestively.

She managed to smile, but her eyelids were so heavy now.

He bent close, blurring… she felt his kiss against her forehead… his breath against her ear: _Dinner in five minutes, love, if you can stay awake..._

But it seemed she could not. Peace settled in her heart, like a warm mantle, and Pad See Ew would have to wait till tomorrow, too.

~.~


	8. Lightening

_**~ Lightening ~**_

 _For the 'Lightening' prompt from the Live Journal Sherlock100 community's table of prompts._

(I think they actually meant 'Lightning', since the prompts around it are weather-based, but on googling the word 'Lightening', this definition came up, which proved much more inspiring...

 **light·en·ing - noun - a drop in the level of the uterus during the last weeks of pregnancy as the head of the fetus engages in the pelvis. Breathing becomes easier, eating a full meal becomes more comfortable.)**

* * *

"Well, this has been remarkably pleasant." John smiled, looking about him, breathing in the fresh air. They were standing before a pretty country cottage, well-kept flower garden in front and a wide lawn in the back that rose gently to the edge of green, wooded hills.

Lestrade chuckled. "Quite a change from the London squalor we usually get for a crime scene. I appreciate you two taking the time to come all the way out here. Why, it's bloody halfway to your mum and dad's house, isn't it, Sherlock? You should buy the place! It'll be up for sale in no time and it'll go for a song, what with the murder and all - poor old lady. But you and the missus wouldn't mind that."

"It's certainly something to consider," Sherlock muttered, but he was distracted by a sudden buzzing and the few phrases from his own violin composition that constituted Molly's text alert. He pulled out his mobile, and both John and Greg were dismayed to see his eyes widen and the color fade from his cheeks as he took in the message. "We've got to go. _Now!_ " he said, and strode off through the cheery garden toward the car.

 **o-o-o**

"Let me see it!" John insisted, once the three of them were in the back seat and barrelling along at top speed toward London, Sherlock having effectively communicated the urgency of the situation to the driver, a young NSY officer.

Sherlock handed his phone to John with seeming reluctance.

With good reason. "Sherlock, she's fine!" John protested, having read Molly's text...

 **He's engaged! Omg I can BREATHE! - MHxxxx**

Lestrade read it, too, and laughed. "Good for her! She's a little bit of a thing, probably been pretty uncomfortable for the last few weeks. That's a big boy she's carrying, Sherlock."

"The complications that can develop in the last trimester are nothing to laugh about!" Sherlock snapped. "If you had read-"

"If you _hadn't_ read that bloody library of medical literature you'd be a much happier man," John snapped right back. "It's a wonder you haven't driven her mad with your armchair advice and diagnoses these last six months."

"Preparation is always the key to a successful outcome," Sherlock growled, "and as a first time father it was plainly my duty to become informed."

"Huh," said Lestrade. "I can see your point. Deb would certainly have been happier with me if I hadn't been so bloody clueless when our first came along. But that was years ago and I was just starting to advance in the force. No time, really."

He sounded so wistful at this last that John braced himself, and sure enough Sherlock's reaction was completely as expected.

"You see!" he exclaimed, grabbing back his mobile and stuffing it in his pocket. "Molly appreciates that I'm involved. And I am determined not to be caught out if there is an emergency."

" _There is no emergency!_ She's doing fine, and she'll do fine at the birth, she's fit and knowledgeable, and you know she'll have the best care in the world."

But Sherlock looked even paler than he had before, and pressed his lips together for a moment, turning to stare out the window. Finally he said, his voice tight, "She's thirty-eight, John. You know that puts her at much greater risk."

John turned to Lestrade, a silent plea in his eyes, but Greg only shook his head, lips quirking. "Best give it up, mate."

John sighed and laid his head back against the seat, his eyes rolling heavenward.

 **o-o-o**

They reached Barts in record time, and Sherlock, who'd been fairly quivering for the last twenty minutes, leapt from the car and strode into the building, his Belstaff billowing dramatically. The exasperated John and amused Greg followed quickly after him, neither intending to miss a moment of the encounter. John was determined to act as a buffer between the prospective parents - Molly had not yet lost patience with her anxious spouse, but this might be the last straw - and Greg already had his mobile out to record the moment for posterity. Down into the familiar depths they rushed, Sherlock eschewing the lift in favor of the stairs, then quickly along the long passageway, ignoring Stamford's questioning greeting as they passed his office But when they finally reached the doors of the mortuary, Sherlock and the others came to an abrupt, panting halt. Molly was just visible through the glass window, safety mask lifted to allow for some note taking, doing her job as on any other day, except that she now wore a somewhat larger lab coat to accommodate young Master Holmes' temporary quarters. The world's only consulting detective stared at her through the window for a long moment, obviously trying to pull himself together.

"What's going on?" Mike Stamford asked, trotting up behind them.

"Sherlock's just bein' a git, as per usual," Greg told him with a grin.

Sherlock suddenly rounded on them, slightly less pale, looking absolute daggers at Greg, who quickly wiped the smile from his face, then at both John and the puzzled Stamford. Then he turned and pushed through the doors. The other three followed immediately, and even John was tempted to laugh at this point.

Molly looked over at the sound of the doors opening, and a brilliant smile lit her pretty face.

Pregnancy suited her, John thought, with some satisfaction. She had that lovely _glow_ about her.

"Sherlock!," she exclaimed, delighted, yet surprised. "I thought… what is it? Why are you all here? I thought the murder was out in the wilds of Bedford!"

Sherlock visibly resisted the urge to catch her up in a fierce embrace. "It… it was. We're… uh… back. You're alright, then?"

Molly closely studied her husband's expression. "I am. I told you I was. Didn't you get my text?"

"Yeees," Sherlock slowly admitted, looking her over from head to foot.

"You didn't reply." She frowned. "Sherlock, you didn't-"

"Freak out?" said Lestrade.

"Panic like the bloody Drama Queen he is?" John added.

Mike said, "What's there to panic about? She's been fine - and she works in a _hospital!_ "

Sherlock was beginning to realize what an idiot he'd been, chagrin creeping over his face. He started to speak. "I-"

But Molly cut him off with a tender, "Sherlock!" and moved to embrace him, swiftly handing her safety mask to Mike and the clipboard and pen to John.

Greg engaged the camera on his mobile, grinning happily.

The two seemed oblivious to their audience for some time. Eventually, Greg stopped filming, John and Mike looked at each other with increasing discomfort, and then, finally, the lovebirds ended their embrace. They still retained each others' hands, though, and gazed at each other in a thoroughly besotted manner.

"Will you pick up some takeaway from Angelo's for us?" Molly said, her soft voice making it sound like the most romantic request in the world. "Since you'll be home early. I'll be another hour here, at least."

"Of course," said Sherlock. "Or I can wait here for you, and we can both go - eat at the restaurant, perhaps, if you're up to it. Angelo would enjoy seeing you. And I can tell you about Bedford. The victim had the prettiest property. I think you'd like it."

"Live away from Baker Street?" Molly said, teasingly.

"Only on the weekends! There's a vast lawn in the back, perfect for all sorts of games and recreation. Room for a few beehives, too, if we were so inclined."

"You'll have to show me. Perhaps we can go up on Thursday morning."

"If you're feeling well enough," Sherlock said, looking a bit uncertain again.

"I told you, I feel wonderful!" Molly said, smiling up at him. "I can _breathe!_ "

As Sherlock took her in his arms again, Mike jerked his head toward the door, and he, John, and Greg made a discreet exit.

Out in the hall, John asked Greg, "Are you going to post that video?"

"Nah," said Greg. "Think I'll just keep it to look at when I get down in the dumps about my own love life. And for young Master Holmes, when he's ready for such things."

John grinned. "You're a good man, Lestrade."

"Amen," said Mike, smiling.

"As are we all, lads," Greg said, with a nod back at the scene they'd just left. "As are we _all_."

~.~


	9. A Thundering Scold

_**~ A Thundering Scold ~**_

 _For the 'Thunder' prompt_

* * *

 _"RosamundMaryWatsonSTOP!"_ came the roar of Sherlock's voice and Martha Hudson jumped with a yelp, like she'd had a pin stuck in her, hair all on end. _What on earth?_

She threw open the door of her flat in time to see Sherlock, grim as death, pounding barefoot down the stairs, dressing gown flying as he passed without even acknowledging her gaping presence, and out the open door of 221B.

The _open door_.

"No!" she gasped, and rushed to the door in his wake, but was brought up short on the threshold at the sight of little Rosie, three and a half, the spit of her mother, and fiercely loved by each and every one of her extended family, huddling in terror on the street curb in her pink pyjamas as her Uncle Sherlock bore down upon her. The poor little darling's face crumpled and she began to wail, but Sherlock mercilessly snatched her up and held her close and fierce, scolding her in low but vehement tones as he carried her back into the house.

Martha closed the door as Sherlock sat down with Rosie on the third step, evidently too overcome to go any further just yet. Rosie was sobbing piteously into the shoulder of his dressing gown, and Sherlock almost looked ready to weep himself.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Martha asked, deeply concerned. The thought of Rosie coming to grief was too nightmarish to contemplate.

"We were napping. She woke up before I did."

"And she left the flat alone?"

"Yes." Residual fear made Sherlock pull the little girl away for a moment to glare at her. "Didn't you?"

Poor Rosie gave another despairing cry and Sherlock gave it up, pulled her close again, and sat there rocking her, mouth set in a firm line. Then he pressed his cheek to her golden curls and said, roughly, "Hush, sweetheart. It wasn't your fault, it was mine."

"Now, that's not true," Martha said, firmly, crouching beside the pair and gently rubbing both Rosie's back and Sherlock's hand. "She may only be three and a half, but she's a very clever little girl - too clever for her own good sometimes, and we all know where she gets that, don't we?"

Sherlock laughed, short and bitter, and kissed the top of Rosie's head. Rosie, her breath still shuddering, turned her head to peek at Martha, her beautiful blue eyes wide.

Martha moved with some difficulty ( _blast that hip!_ ), sat down on the second step, took up Rosie's little hand, and kissed it. Then she said, "You knew you weren't to leave the flat, Rosie, didn't you? Else why not wake your Uncle Sherlock, hmm? My love, you must _never_ do such a thing again! You might so easily be hurt and it would _break all our hearts!_ Do you understand what that means?"

Rosie's lip quivered, and she did not reply, just closed her eyes and laid her flushed cheek against Uncle Sherlock's damp chest again.

But Martha nodded, satisfied. "Very well. We won't mention it to your daddy this time, or to Aunt Molly. There's no need to worry them needlessly. We're _all_ going to be much more careful from now on."

"We certainly are," Sherlock said, raising his eyes to Martha's, a smile in them now, but a sadder and wiser one.

Martha rose to her feet, and found that her voice was not quite steady as she said, "I'll just go make some tea for the three of us, shall I?"

Rosie opened her eyes at this. "Biscuits, too?"

"Of course," Martha said, with a smile for that sweet little chirp. "Your Uncle Sherlock really cannot have his tea without biscuits."

Rosie looked up at Sherlock for verification, and he said, solemnly, "It's quite true."

Martha turned away to her door as they had another hug. They needed a moment to themselves, Sherlock and Rosie, just the two of them, so all could be right with the world again.

~.~


	10. Shelter

_**~ Shelter ~**_

 _For the 'Storm' prompt_

* * *

 **Life is bare, gloom and misery everywhere**

 **Stormy weather**

 **Just can't get my poor self together**

 **I'm weary all the time**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes pulled into the drive of his home (dreamlike, almost unreal in the grey, foggy morning: strange, but probably understandable given the events of the last twenty-four hours). Braked to a stop. Shut the car off. Sat there.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and by rights he should have gone straight to his London office to begin the arduous task of arranging for Sherrinford's emergency reinforcement and, ultimately, its complete renovation. It was likely that most, if not all, the staff would need to be replaced. Hopefully the cadre of MI5 agents would suffice, temporarily. The ones who'd… _rescued_ him.

Euros.

Even now he found it difficult to fathom how easily he had been taken in.

Once again she'd proved him a fool. A failure.

 _Stupid._

 _Human_ _._

There was a difficult road ahead. His mind touched briefly on revealing... the _facts_ … to his parents. But then he recoiled.

 _Not yet._

He knew he was more than a little overwhelmed, and bone weary - he did not have Sherlock's capacity for going without sleep for days on end. Or without sustenance, for that matter.

When had he last eaten?

A grim chuff of laughter shook him as he thought of the meager offerings he knew to be currently on hand in his pristine kitchen.

Well, his housekeeper would be here soon. He would send her out for a few things.

He took a deep breath.

The habit of years was strong, so he hardened his resolve. Firmed his mouth. Lifted his chin.

Got out of the car.

He walked slowly toward the house… rest was what was needed… he would think later… _what was that light in his study?_

He stopped on the walkway for a moment, frowning, then gripped his umbrella and strode quickly on, a great deal of his weariness vanishing at the thought that someone had had the audacity to break into his home - for the second time in forty-eight hours! ( _The Clown… Sherlock wrestling with him on the beach… his own ignominious terror…_ )

He entered almost silently, heart thudding, leaving the door ajar, and walked slowly to the open double doors of his study.

And gaped - thankfully an inward reaction, for the most part.

"Hello, Mycroft," said Alicia Smallwood.

She was standing by his desk, quite composed, elegantly put together as ever, not a hair out of place.

It reminded him suddenly - forcibly - that he'd been wearing the same suit for the last twenty-four hours.

What with that, and the weariness, and the lack of food, it was possible that there was some excuse for him to blurt unthinkingly, resentfully, "What are you doing here?"

The corner of her mouth lifted, just a little. "I thought," she said, rather gently, "that perhaps you could use a friend."

A friend. _Oh my God._ He opened his mouth, to deny it. _Thank you, no. I am quite..._

But of course he wasn't _quite_ , was he?

She spoke again, motioning toward the coffee table that lay in front of the sofa under the window. "I've made tea - and those pastries are from Ottolenghi Belgravia, fresh this morning. And I've brought some eggs, if you want some. I'm quite a good cook. Had lessons."

He just stood there staring at her, at a loss for words, which was so unlike him that it made him feel even more of an idiot. At a loss for words… and everything else.

She was coming toward him, an odd expression on her face. Pity? No. Not precisely. Sympathy maybe. Some concern.

Fondness?

She stopped in front of him. He could smell her perfume… a new scent, she no longer wore _Clair de la Lune_ , for obvious reasons.

She said, "It will be alright, Mycroft."

"Will it?" he managed in return. He had his doubts. Very strong doubts.

But she said, "Yes. It will." And she reached up to take him in her arms.

This was unprecedented. Awkward, to say the least. _I'm not lonely…_

But… maybe he'd lied to Sherlock on that occasion, too.

His arms were about her now, almost of their own volition. She was slight, but she had a backbone of steel as he well knew. The skin of her cheek soft as velvet.

He closed his eyes, letting thought fade.

He eventually murmured, "What perfume is that? It's lovely."

He felt her smile. "Just Chanel. I haven't worn it in a while."

He moved back slightly, to look down at her. "It suits you."

She was still smiling. "Thank you."

And his pocket buzzed and vibrated, his mobile phone bringing him back to the present.

She released him so he could answer it.

But it was only a text. "It's Sherlock," he told her. He took in the words: **She's forgiven me. -SH**

"Is he alright?" Alicia asked.

Mycroft found that he could smile. "Yes. He is." His smile grew broader, realizing that Sherlock must have gone straight to Molly Hooper's home after wrapping things up at Musgrave.

Maybe things really would be alright - and grandchildren would do much to assuage his mother's wrath.

Unworthy thought.

He laughed a little.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," came the voice of his housekeeper from the doorway, sounding cheery but a bit concerned.

He turned. "Mrs. Jennings," he said. "Good morning. I'm giving you the day off, I'm afraid. With pay, of course."

"Oh! Why… thank you, sir!" Mrs. Jennings' round countenance beamed. "My little girl's in a play at her school this morning, and she'll be that chuffed to see me there!"

"I'm glad of it," Mycroft said. And he actually was, strangely enough.

"Will you be needing anything at all before I go, then?" Mrs. Jennings asked.

Alicia spoke. "I'll take care of him."

Mrs. Jennings nodded, and replied, "That's good. Very good."

A conspiratorial look passed between the two women, yet Mycroft was far from offended. On the contrary.

"I'll just be going, then," Mrs. Jennings said. "Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," Mycroft replied. "Tell your daughter to… er… break a leg."

His heart was strangely light.

Mrs. Jennings chuckled. "I'll do just that," she said, and took her leave.

They heard the sound of the front door closing.

Alicia was looking up at him. "The tea is still hot, I believe."

Tea. And pastries - my God, he deserved some fine pastries.

"How long can you stay?" Mycroft asked her.

"As long as you want me to stay," Alicia said. "I meant what I said to your housekeeper."

He took a deep breath - almost a sigh of relief.

Alicia said, "Come and have some tea, Mycroft."

She took his hand in her own that was so small and fine-boned. But there was strength there, too, strength and much warmth as well.

It was unexpected. Unlooked for. But so very much appreciated.

 **~.~**


	11. Broken

_**~ Broken ~**_

 _For the 'Broken' prompt_

* * *

It was the dark of the moon, so it would have been difficult to keep track of the grubby figure that darted from shadow to shadow in this wild little corner of Regent's Park, even if she'd not been Rosie Watson and well versed in subterfuge and covert maneuvers as young as she was (nine years, five months, and twelve days, and _going on twenty_ , if her daddy were to be believed). Whether it was nature - she _was_ her mother's daughter, as had been stated, and, indeed, proven time and again - or nurture - Daddy and Uncle Sherlock probably didn't even realize how much they'd taught her and Will and Jon in the years they'd all been flitting about London - Rosie had had no trouble escaping from her second story bedroom window with her school backpack full of needed supplies, then making her way first to the Tube, to the park, and then slipping within its borders, all the while avoiding the prying eyes of the CTV cameras that were monitored day and night by Uncle Mycroft and his minions. She had left her mobile phone behind, too, so there was no chance of being tracked that way, but that worried her a little, since it also meant she would have no way to call for help if it was needed. However, there was nothing for it. She'd made a promise and she intended to keep it.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

The park was very dark and more than a bit scary at this very late hour (far later than she'd ever been out on her own), but fortunately she was able to locate the path that ran by the stream, and within a few minutes there was the bridge over it as Will had described, a dim light at either end to mark it. Then, when she was approaching, she could just make him out, emerging from beneath the bridge, a darker shadow among the surrounding shrubbery.

"Will!" she breathed, trotted quickly up to him and pulled him into a relieved hug.

To her surprise and concern, he did not try to squirm out of her embrace, as he would ordinarily have done, but on the contrary, clung to her a bit, and even gave a kind of sob.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her cheek against his dark curls. "Where's Jon?".

But now Jon was emerging from under the bridge, too, and though the light was faint, Rosie could just see that his little white face was streaked with tears.

"Jon!" she said in a grieved whisper, and Will took this as his cue, straightening and pushing away, and swiping at his own tears with a dirty, impatient hand.

"Come on," he said, leading her to their hiding place under the bridge, his arm going about his little brother's shoulders as they reached him. "Jon, don't cry, Rosie's here now and it'll be alright, you'll see."

But Jon whimpered, "No it won't. It'll never be alright again."

Rosie took off her backpack and the three of them sat down in the deep shadows of the boys' chosen lair - fortunately there was a little grass under the bridge, so it wasn't too muddy.

Rosie steeled herself and said, "Well, it _will_ be alright, because this is never going to work and they'll find you and take you home again. They're _all_ out looking for you!"

"You promised you wouldn't say anything!" Will said, sounding both angry and frightened.

"I _won't!_ " Rosie said, "but it won't matter, Will, you're only seven, and Jon's not much more than a baby! You have to go home!"

"I'm not a baby!" Jon sulked.

Rosie sniffed. "Well, your fifth birthday was only two weeks ago, so you're not much more." She began to unzip the backpack.

Jon gave a sort of gulping sob, and said in a small voice, "That was a good day, wasn't it, Will? Do you think we'll _ever_ be able to have another party?"

"Of course," Will snapped, helping Rosie unpack the comestibles and the blanket she'd brought. "We'll have loads of parties when we're grown up - after we've bought Dad a new violin."

"Speaking of his violin," said Rosie, "how on earth did you manage to make such a mess? Daddy says the music stand was broken as well, and the sheets of music were all over the place."

"We were just having a bit of a barney and it got out of hand," mumbled Will.

Jon said, "I pushed him and he fell, right over the stand and _smash_ on the violin. Dad had it in its case, but it wasn't closed, and…" But his voice, having started out sounding rather chuffed at his success in knocking his big brother down, now became suspended by tears, apparently at the thought of the irreparable damage they'd done to Uncle Sherlock's prized instrument.

"It was worth a fortune. Probably _millions_ ," Will said, morosely. "He'll _kill_ us if he finds us. Mummy, too."

"She left you by yourselves?" Rosie asked. She knew Aunt Molly was deeply regretting doing that.

Will said, "We were watching telly and I told her I'd keep an eye on Jon. And Mrs. Hudson was downstairs - or just at Speedy's, at least. Mummy only took Daisy down to Boots 'cause she'd used the last nappy."

"And you couldn't be good even for a few minutes?"

Jon said, resentfully, "Will wouldn't give me the remote and I wanted to change the channel. _Thomas_ was coming on."

"I hate _Thomas the Tank_!" Will said, with real loathing.

"That's because you're _stupid!_ " Jon shot back.

"You-" Will began, but Rosie gave Will a sharp smack on the arm and he yelped instead.

"You _both_ deserve killing!" she snapped, "after your mum's told you time and again not to go brawling in the flat!" Both boys fell silent, unable to deny the justice of this observation, and Rosie took this opportunity to fish out the small torch that had fallen to the bottom of the backpack. "Look here," she said, lighting it, "I've brought you food - well, what I could."

She had only felt able to take such items as would not be readily missed. There were two cans of sardines, a half loaf of now rather squashed bread, a jar of Mrs. Hudson's apricot preserves, Christmas biscuits in a decorative tin that had not been opened at the holidays and had ended up in the back of the pantry, and several fresh apples from a bag of a dozen Daddy had brought home from the shops just the day before.

"Sardines?" Will said, with the same loathing he'd reserved for _Thomas the Tank_.

"They're good!" Rosie said, defensively. "And you'll need protein if you're to be living rough. Good job it's summer and not as cold at night as it might be."

"I'm glad you brought us a blanket though," Jon said. "Thank you for helping us, Rosie."

"Yes," said Will, gruffly. "But you won't say anything?"

"No," said Rosie, sadly. "But they won't _really_ kill you, you know. They'll be very angry, of course - well, they already are! And so worried about you. I know I promised not to say anything when you called - where did you get a phone, anyway?"

"Borrowed it from some girl," Will said. "Told her we'd lost ours and had to call home."

Rosie nodded. "Well, it was horrid having to not tell them. Your parents thought you might have run away to our house, and when you weren't there your mum cried! - and Daisy, too."

"Daisy's always crying," said Will, but sadly.

"We'll never see her again, will we?" Jon added, and gave a shuddering sniff.

Rosie sighed. "You have to go back," she insisted. "The longer you stay out here the worse it'll be. I won't say a word, I'll keep my promise. But I want you both to think about it. Okay?"

Jon nodded, looking miserable. Will pressed his lips together, his little face, so like his father's, very pale under the tangled curls.

"I'll be back tomorrow, as soon as I can," Rosie said. She gave each of them a kiss and a quick hug, to which neither objected, and then got to her feet. "Get some sleep, if you can. That's a nice, warm blanket, and the sound of that stream over the stones is lovely."

As she left the shelter of the bridge, she had to steady herself pretty firmly to keep from weeping when two plaintive little goodbyes came from the darkness behind her.

 **o-o-o**

A while later, Rosie was climbing into her bedroom window once more, silent as a cat, and confident she'd succeeded in getting away with her clandestine mission. This assertion lasted for approximately ten seconds after her feet met the floor and she'd pulled off her knit cap and tossed it on the bed. Then the overhead light went on and she was gasping at the sight of her father standing inside her bedroom door, a quite deadly look on his face.

"D-daddy!" she stammered, when he did not immediately speak.

There was another moment of tense silence, during which the thudding of her heart was the loudest thing in the room. Then he took a deep breath, glared at her, straightened himself, soldier-fashion, and said, "We'll have a talk about this later - and likely more than _a talk_ , as you've gone way past the line, this time. _Way_ past. Come on." He crossed the distance between them in what seemed the blink of an eye and took her upper arm in a firm grip. "We're going downstairs."

Rosie had a dreadful feeling she knew what - or who - was downstairs, but it turned out to be even worse than she'd feared. Uncle Sherlock was there, looking very grim, but so was his brother, Uncle Mycroft, his eyes freezing the soul within her.

"So here she is," Rosie's father said, and let her go with a very small shove toward these two beloved but very formidable men.

Rosie swallowed hard, but had to ask: "H-how did you know?"

Uncle Mycroft's face expressed just the tiniest bit of amusement. "You thought you were quite clever at avoiding the CTV cameras, didn't you? But perhaps you didn't know there is one trained on the side of your house, with an excellent view of your bedroom window." He shrugged. "We keep your father's home under light surveillance, just in case. Apparently we were wise to do so."

And now Uncle Sherlock spoke, his voice low but hard-edged. "Where are they, Rosie? You _know_ where they are, _don't you_."

Rosie's eyes pricked with tears, but she firmed her lips and tilted her chin.

And Uncle Sherlock suddenly gave a helpless laugh. "God, John, she's Mary _to the life!_ " And then he came to her, swiftly, went down on one knee and took up her hand in a firm clasp.

She gave an involuntary, gasping sob.

"Tell me, where are they?" he said, his voice gentler now.

"I can't _say!_ " Rosie said, and bit her lip, failing to entirely hold back her tears. "I p-promised!"

Uncle Sherlock's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. And then he said, "Can you _show_ us?"

And Rosie breathed a huge sigh of relief, gave a watery laugh, and threw her arms about Uncle Sherlock's neck.

 **o-o-o**

It was past midnight by the time they were approaching the bridge. Rosie had barely spoken during the journey, just led the three men with a sureness that had them smiling grimly at times, but now she stopped about twenty feet away from where she knew the boys would now be sleeping, turned, and caught at Uncle Sherlock's coat sleeve.

"Please don't hurt them," she pleaded in little more than a whisper. "They're so frightened and so very sorry. I tried to get them to come back, but…"

Uncle Sherlock bent and kissed her on her forehead, his eyes sad, a crooked smile on his lips. Then he said to Rosie, her father, and Uncle Mycroft, "Stay here, please."

As Uncle Sherlock moved off, Rosie bit her lip and dropped back to take her father's hand, quite forgetting how angry he had been with her. He squeezed her hand, though, warm and firm, and then she remembered and looked up at him. He was looking down at her, and though it was difficult to tell in the darkness, she thought perhaps he didn't look quite as angry as he had before.

Uncle Sherlock reached the bridge and disappeared into the shadowed darkness. Presently there were some sounds, a startled, "Dad? _Dad!_ ", and then a longish period of childish whining, whimpering, and weeping interspersed with snatches of low-pitched scolding and other conversation.

Uncle Mycroft gave a sigh and looked up at the stars.

Rosie and her daddy sat down side by side on the grassy bank of the stream.

It was a long time before Uncle Sherlock emerged from under the bridge, but when he did, he was carrying Jon, wrapped in the blanket. He came up to them as Rosie and her father got to their feet again.

"Can you take him, Mycroft?" Uncle Sherlock asked.

"Most certainly," Uncle Mycroft murmured, and added, "Jonathan Mycroft Vernet Holmes, what are we going to do with you?"

Jon clung to his uncle, snuffling.

Uncle Sherlock turned and there was William, coming out of the shadows, now, rather hesitantly. His father walked back to him, picked him up, and held him. Uncle Sherlock was heard to say to Will, "I can't carry you all the way back, you know. You're getting far too big."

"Just a little way?" begged Will, his voice a bit teary, his forehead tucked against his father's neck.

"A little way, yes."

Uncle Sherlock smiled and winked at Rosie as he drew even with them, but as he moved ahead, Will looked at her over his father's shoulder. "You told them!" he said, accusingly.

"I _showed_ them," Rosie said firmly. "I never _said_ a word! _"_

Uncle Mycroft lifted a brow at Rosie, exchanged a speaking glance with her daddy, and then moved off after his brother, easily carrying the blanket-wrapped Jon.

Rosie and her father brought up the rear, still holding hands.

"So was that your plan?" Daddy asked, sounding amused now.

Rosie gave a great inward sigh of relief. "I _promised_ , Daddy. To bring them supplies and to not _say_ anything."

And he laughed, though not altogether happily. "Promises," he said. "Bloody promises. We may have to have a bit of talk about that, too, young lady."

"But… just talk?" Rosie asked in a small voice.

Daddy looked down at her and his smile was gentle. "Yeah. Just talk. You really are the image of your mother, you know." He raised his eyes to the path ahead and muttered, "God help me."

~.~


	12. Mended

_**~ Mended ~**_

 _For the 'Fixed' prompt_

* * *

What with a long anticipated holiday at Aunt Harry's, followed by a three-night stay in Brighton that included a visit to Daddy's old commanding officer, Major Sholto, it was a whole week after The Adventure of the Broken Violin before Rosie Watson again saw any member of the Holmes family. But the day after she and her father returned to London, Aunt Molly took Rosie shopping for some new clothes. Summer would be ending soon, and Aunt Molly had always taken it upon herself to make sure Mary's daughter was well equipped to begin a new school year.

"But it's not just that," Aunt Molly said, confidentially, when they were headed off to the Tube station, Daisy Holmes - eighteen month old Margaret Rosamund - gleefully bouncing in her umbrella stroller. "I want to get you some special things, to thank you for helping the boys last week."

Rosie flushed. "I… I thought you might be _angry_ about that."

Aunt Molly looked down at her and smiled. "Because you didn't tell us right away where they were? Well, no. Not when I'd heard the whole story. I know about promises, you see. And keeping secrets. It's not always wise - or easy. But sometimes it's what one has to do."

"Daddy said I should have told you Will had called, when you first came to our house looking for them. I think I might have done if Will hadn't said they were okay, that they were just hungry and scared - well, he said Jon was scared, but I knew he was, too. And if it hadn't been summer, and such a beautiful, warm night."

Aunt Molly nodded. "Each case is different. But you did well, I think. Those naughty boys!" She shook her head, not quite able to smile.

Rosie said, hesitantly, "What happened to them?"

Aunt Molly did smile at that, but she said, "Nothing too dreadful - but they'll probably tell you when we all meet for lunch."

 **o-o-o**

It was just after noon when Rosie followed Aunt Molly into the surprisingly posh restaurant where Uncle Sherlock had made a reservation for all of them. The host greeted Aunt Molly as an old friend, and had one of the staff take away the stroller and the bags that were evidence of their extremely successful morning of shopping. Rosie was now feeling quite excited about school starting up again, but in the meantime, wearing her new "special things" - _Little Mermaid_ leggings, a lacey, gauzy tunic style blouse in a wonderful shade of teal, little red ballet flats, and a bow of matching red tied at the end of her freshly french-plaited hair - made her feel rather like a princess in this elegant place.

"Your usual spot," the host murmured to Aunt Molly, and led the three of them toward the back of the restaurant where a large table was set for nine plus a highchair. Daddy and Uncle Sherlock stood up as the ladies approached, and Will and Jon belatedly followed suit after their father shot them a sharp look.

Uncle Sherlock kissed Aunt Molly on the cheek, then took Daisy and made the toddler laugh by giving her a smacking kiss, too, before popping her into the waiting highchair at the head of the table.

"Who else is joining us?" Aunt Molly asked.

"Greg Lestrade," replied Uncle Sherlock, handing Daisy a cracker from a basket on the table. "And Mycroft and Lady Smallwood."

Aunt Molly's brows rose, and she glanced over at Will and Jon.

Uncle Sherlock said, in meaningful tones, "Don't worry, they're going to be on their very _best_ behavior."

Will wrinkled his nose a bit, but Jon said, "Yes! Can Rosie sit with us?"

"Maybe she should sit _between_ you," Rosie's daddy said, with a chuckle as he seated Aunt Molly on Daisy's left hand and then sat down next to her.

Jon exclaimed happily, "Can she? Move over, Will. Come on Rosie!"

Rosie looked a question at Will, wondering if he might still be annoyed, or even angry that she'd betrayed the location of their bolthole in Regent's Park on that memorable night a week ago. But he had a shy, if crooked, smile for her and moved over readily enough, so she went around the table to take the chair between the brothers.

"You look brilliant, Rosie!" said Jon. "Doesn't she, Will?"

Will's expression turned rather mulishly embarrassed, and Rosie was moved to hiss at him, "If you say you hate _The Little Mermaid_ I'll give you such a _pinch_ …"

"No!" Will said, quickly. " _Little Mermaid_ is better than _Thomas_ , anyway."

Rosie chuckled.

"Imagine Rosie wearing _Thomas the Tank_ leggings!" Jon exclaimed and laughed rather uproariously.

"Shush!" Aunt Molly said, with a glare at them all...

...just as Detective Inspector Lestrade walked up to the table. "Well, look what we have here," he said, eyes widening with feigned dismay as he took in Will, Rosie, and Jon. "The infamous miscreants. But your dad's always been a courageous bloke - not to mention a bit _barmy_."

Uncle Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes. As he shook hands across the table he drawled, "Don't make me regret inviting you, Lestrade."

Aunt Molly gave her husband a frown. " _He's_ more likely to be the one with regrets." She smiled as Greg clasped her hand. "Don't worry, one of us will take Daisy out if she starts fussing, and those three know how to behave, when they set their minds to it."

Rosie's father said, as he shook hands, too, " _My_ little girl has _always_ known how to behave in restaurants." He gave Rosie a wink, and she flushed with pleasure.

"So she has," Greg said, kindly. "It's her Holmesian bookends I'm not so sure about. But I'll sit down here at the foot of the table and keep young Will company, since Jon's dad is by him and can keep him in order."

Will looked both pleased and disturbed by the teasing, and Rosie gave his hand a squeeze under the table. He gave her a sideways glance and a slight smile, but sat very quiet and rather stiff.

And then Uncle Mycroft and Lady Smallwood were approaching.

All the gentlemen at the table stood up, including Will and Jon - Lady Smallwood was a very impressive woman. But Uncle Mycroft slowed his pace as he took in the number and nature of his prospective tablemates. "Good lord," he said, lifting a brow. He looked at Uncle Sherlock. "You failed to tell me we were dining _en famille_. Whatever gave you the impression that I like surprises, brother mine?"

Uncle Sherlock rolled his eyes for the second time. "Sit down, Mycroft. Hello, Alisia. You're looking well."

"Thank you," Lady Smallwood said, her eyes alight with laughter.

There were more greetings among the adults, which transitioned quite naturally to conversation. Will, Rosie, and Jon sat very quietly for time, then began to converse, too, in very low voices.

"You look very gentlemanly in those clothes," Rosie said to the boys, which was true. They looked like they were set to have tea with Prince George and Princess Charlotte! "Did your dad have much trouble convincing you to dress up?"

"No, we had to," Will said. "We were at music lessons before this and the teacher's _ancient_. It's _required_."

"Really?" Rosie asked, round-eyed.

Jon said, impressively, " _And_ we have to practice an hour a day. It's part of our punishment. Till school starts. Then it'll be a half hour."

"What do you mean? What happened?" Rosie asked.

Will said, "Dad had to get a new violin, while his other one's being repaired-"

"Repaired?" said Rosie, surprised. "I thought you'd smashed it."

Jon said, "It wasn't as smashed as we thought."

Will added, "Dad says it won't ever sound quite the same, though. Anyway, he got another one, so he wouldn't miss playing with Aunt Eurus, and he decided Jon should start learning the violin, too, so he bought him a little one. I'm still doing piano."

"Yeah, it's brilliant!" Jon said. "I can already play _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_. Only we're not allowed to watch telly for a whole month," he added sadly.

"And practicing a bloody hour a day isn't _brilliant_ ," Will said acidly, annoyed at what he strongly felt was his brother's completely unwarranted enthusiasm. "I wish he'd just thrashed us instead – at least it would've been quick."

"Is that so, Will?" came Uncle Sherlock's amused voice.

Rosie gasped and fixed her eyes on the table, and Jon shrank down beside her, silent. But Will looked up at his father, horrified.

Uncle Sherlock said to him, coolly, "I'll have to remind you of that the next time you misbehave. And Jon, too, if he likes."

Jon shrank still further, and Will looked down at the table now, too, sulky and very red-faced. DI Lestrade chuckled beside him and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

Uncle Mycroft observed to his brother, "You're quite the tyrant, considering the lenience _you_ were shown as a child."

"Oh, please," Uncle Sherlock said, impatiently.

But Lady Smallwood said, "That's probably _why_ he's a bit of a tyrant, Mycroft. It did take him nearly forty years to grow up."

Uncle Mycroft sniffed. "That's not what our mother says. _You've always been the adult._ Implying that I haven't been, of course."

"Oh, my God," Uncle Sherlock said. "Can we just agree that, for all her virtues, our mother really knows very little about the two of us?"

The brothers glowered at each other across the table while the other adults, particularly Aunt Molly and Lady Smallwood, smiled discreetly.

Then, Daisy, focusing on more important matters, squawked and reached toward the cracker basket.

Uncle Sherlock handed her another cracker, saying, "Yes, sweetheart, we're _all_ starving. And here's the waiter, at last. Let's have an end to this extremely awkward conversation, shall we? We're here to celebrate."

Uncle Mycroft, sitting back in his chair, asked, "Celebrate what, precisely?"

"Jon's mastery of _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ , obviously," said Uncle Sherlock, giving his subdued younger son a hair ruffle. "And further, a whole week of fairly good behavior."

Will dared to raise his eyes to his father's, saw what was plainly written there, and breathed again.

 **o-o-o**

After an excellent lunch, during which the children were all exceptionally subdued and Jon in particular managed to eat all his vegetables _and_ not spill any of his milk ("Unprecedented!" remarked his father), goodbyes were said to DI Lestrade, Uncle Mycroft, and Lady Smallwood, who had to return to their offices, and the rest of the party returned to 221B Baker St.

"Let's stop in and see Mrs. Hudson for a moment," Aunt Molly said as they entered the door. "She's been a bit under the weather lately."

"Can't we visit later?" Jon moaned. "I want to play my piece for Rosie."

"Yes, all right," said Uncle Sherlock. "It's probably best we don't inundate her flat all at once, anyway."

Will exclaimed, "Come on Rosie! I'll play you the Minuet in G, that's _my_ new piece!"

He pounded up the steps, but was dogged by his brother who was ranting that _he_ should play first, it was his idea, and Will was a horrid git and he could go soak his head…

Etc.

"Well, that didn't last long," said Uncle Sherlock, wryly.

"Don't worry," Rosie said with a smirk. "I'll keep them in line."

And, after exchanging a fond look with her father, she, too, pounded up the stairs.

 **o-o-o**

Some twenty minutes later, Martha Hudson looked up from where she sat in her wing chair, bouncing little Daisy Holmes on her knee and basking in the sight of three of her favorite people in the world enjoying tea and biscuits in her lounge. "Listen to that!" she exclaimed, with a wide smile.

Strains of music had been coming from above for some time, but now both violin and piano were playing the _same_ tune: _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_.

"Oh, lovely!" Mrs. Hudson said.

"Thank goodness!" said Molly Holmes, raising her eyes heavenward.

"Amazing," said John, with a nod to his best friend.

And Sherlock murmured, "Indeed, it seems there may be hope for them yet," and took another sip of his tea.

~.~


	13. Dark Night

_**~ Dark Night ~**_

 _For the 'Dark' prompt, a "deleted scene" from Chapter 11: Broken_

* * *

Jon was crying again before Rosie disappeared up the path, into the dark night. He was trying not to, but he couldn't seem to help it. He was always the softer of the two of them.

But Will's eyes stung, too, as he took his brother's hand, and his voice wasn't as steady as he would have liked as he said, "Come on, let's wrap up in that blanket and get some sleep."

"I w-want to go home," Jon whimpered as they returned to the deeper gloom under the bridge.

"I know," Will said, tightly. He led his brother over to where the blanket and their pitiful stock of provisions lay. He could just barely see them. "Are you hungry?"

"A little. Can I have a biscuit?"

"Yeah. Let's spread out the blanket first."

They spread the blanket near the concrete wall, part of the bridge's foundation, and then, with some difficulty, Will opened the tin of biscuits. Left over from Christmas (and sharp grief smote Will at the thought that they'd never see a Christmas at home again), there was still tape all around the edge of the tin, difficult to pick off. He finally managed it, though, and then the tin opened quite easily.

He brought it over and sat down next to Jon, leaned back against the cold concrete, and wiped his fingers a bit against the rough denim of his trousers before taking out a couple of biscuits and handing them to his brother.

Presently, there was the sound of munching.

After a bit, Jon said, "Aren't you going to have any?"

"No," said Will.

His eyes were stinging again, and his lip quivering, too.

He set his teeth and turned his head to peer at the faintly visible landscape outside their bolthole.

Jon moved closer to him, small and warm. Snuffling.

Will put his arm around him, turning back to the blackness closer at hand. "Let's wrap up and go to sleep," he said, giving his brother a hug.

"All right," said Jon.

As they scooted down to lay flat and close, and drew the edges of the blanket over them and tight around them, Will doubted he'd be able to sleep, even as tired as he was, though he'd make an effort to lie still for his brother's sake. Jon, wrung out, soon settled and within a very few minutes his breathing became deep and even. They had always shared the same room at home, and Will knew the sound of his brother in sleep.

It was a soothing sound. Will closed his eyes and listened, and slowly but surely there was only that, and the dark night - the darkest he'd ever known - fading.

~.~


	14. Coming Home

_**~ Coming Home ~**_

 _For the 'Light' prompt_

* * *

He remembered the darkness - the deadly struggle to find himself, so often set back by the demands of a brain that wouldn't stop, by drugs, by a black cynicism that tainted his every experience of the world. He remembered, but it almost didn't seem real any more.

 _This_ was real.

Coming in from the rain. Climbing the familiar staircase. Standing at his doorway and watching for a moment, before they saw him there.

His boys. Will, so like him in many ways, yet with a stability in his nature that Sherlock Holmes barely possessed even now. And Jon, nearly his brother's equal in intelligence, but radiating optimism and good cheer, the kind of person that one immediately knew made the world a better a better place.

And Daisy, the darling of his heart. Her mother's daughter.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed Molly: lover, wife, mother. The ground under his feet. She stood up from behind the table, joy in her eyes at the sight of him.

He had never doubted her love. Ever.

She was due in another month - a little sister _just for me!_ in Daisy's opinion - but now she was possessed of the glow of late pregnancy, a strange yet proven phenomenon that made him immediately ache to touch her, take her in his arms. Take her to bed and happily give himself over to her once more. Always just once more.

But that was for later.

Dad! _Daddy!_

And he couldn't help grinning like a fool as all his children leapt up, scrambling for him. He crouched, catching all three in his embrace, hugging them all at once. They were still small enough. And they were still young enough to have no inhibitions about it.

"It's good to be home," he told them, when there was a viable gap in their elation.

His voice was rough with emotion, but he no longer cared much about hiding.

Daisy grabbed at his coat sleeve. "Come have dinner! Mummy's made Shepherd's Pie!"

He stood up.

"Yes," Molly said, laughter edging her voice. "We just started five minutes ago. Your timing was impeccable!"

"I _am_ Sherlock Holmes," he said, with a semblance of his old arrogance.

"You certainly are," Molly agreed. Her beautiful eyes were shining. "Come sit down."

He took off his coat and scarf (with just a little "help"), closed the door against the darkness, turned, and walked thankfully into the light.

~.~


	15. Worth Keeping

_**~ Worth Keeping ~**_

 _For the 'Shade' prompt_

* * *

Molly was nursing Alexandra Millicent Holmes in the shade of the wide veranda of their beach house. The baby was almost six months old and Sherlock had been right: it was the ideal time for the whole family to go on holiday like this.

"She's not crawling, yet," Sherlock had argued, "so we can put her on a blanket and she'll actually stay there - it'll be a couple of years at least before we can take her again without her wandering off, or eating sand. And we won't need to worry about feeding her, since she's not on solids yet. It's perfect."

And Molly, tired of the long and exceptionally cold London winter, had finally agreed.

She had been a little worried about the boys missing two weeks of school in the middle of the term, but Sherlock had spoken to their teachers himself, emphasizing the educational value of travel, and promising that he would see that they were diligent about completing any assignments they were given. And he'd been true to his word. The three of them spent an hour after breakfast each morning, seated at a dining table covered with books, papers, the boys' tablets, and Sherlock's laptop, and both Will and Jon were very good about listening to their father, and about completing their work quickly.

Daisy, though not yet out of nursery school, sat with the three most mornings, coloring or practicing her letters, and was absorbing an almost disturbing amount of knowledge which she would display with startling and not always appropriate frequency. Sherlock would sometimes look askance at her - thinking of Eurus, Molly suspected - but then Daisy would do something to convey the lighthearted cheer and caring that came from her loving heart, and his concern would vanish. He could smile again.

Daisy was now visible from the veranda, out on the beach, adorable in her bright, ruffle-bottomed swimsuit, building a sandcastle with her father. Sherlock was grinning at something she'd said, and he looked so happy, and so very fit and tan (in spite of religiously applied SPF50) that Molly found lust stirring within her, as well as love.

 _Mine_ , she thought, and chuckled to herself, greedy and unashamed to admit it.

She could see Will and Jon, too, out in the water, splashing about with the boogie boards Sherlock had purchased for them, even though there were only very small waves in this secluded bay. Their swimming was improving immensely, and Daisy was catching on, as well. Sherlock was a good teacher.

Molly looked down and saw that Lexie had dropped into a sated doze. She was a beautiful baby, with fine, dark hair, and something of Sherlock's bone structure, though in a more feminine cast. She seemed thus far to be retaining his blue eyes, unlike Will, who otherwise was the image of his father.

She looked up at her boys again, and laughed to see Jon tackle Will, the two of them making a huge splash in the clean, turquoise water.

Time to cool off herself.

She rose carefully from the glider and carried her baby to the nearby cradle, setting her within. Lexie took a deep, contented breath and then stilled. Molly drew the mosquito netting closed.

Then memorized the moment.

It was well worth keeping.

"Mum!" called a high-pitched voice - Jon's.

She turned, shading her eyes, and Daisy was standing now, too, waving. "Come see our castle!"

Molly smiled, and adjusted her bikini. She'd wanted a one-piece, but Sherlock had convinced her that a two-piece would be more practical for nursing. He'd also gone shopping with her to pick it out, and she had ended up with one that was of a pretty flowered material, but more revealing than she would have chosen for herself. Still, she fancied she looked quite nice in it, particularly considering she'd given birth to four children, one of them not quite six months ago.

And when she padded barefoot across the smooth deck to the veranda steps and trotted lightly down to the sand, only to see Sherlock looking at her with a particular light in his eye, and a devilish smirk on his lips, she was, happily, quite sure of it.

~.~


	16. Something Like a Vow

_**~ Something Like a Vow ~**_

 _For the 'What?' prompt, this is a sequel to Chapter 7: Needs Must_

* * *

 _What do you need?_

She woke to the echo of those words, voiced so long ago, yet always in her heart, and often in her dreams.

The bedroom was bathed in a faint luminescence that told her it was still very early on this quiet, snowy morning. The air was cool, almost cold, but the bedclothes were warm, and the body spooned against the whole back of her, head to toe, was warmer still.

Sherlock.

Who would have thought that it would come to this: _Domestic Bliss_ , as Mycroft put it. After all the years of agonizing hope, resignation, and even, occasionally, despair.

Miraculously, her soul ached no longer.

And, on this particular winter morning, five days after succumbing to a truly dreadful flu virus with attendant bacterial complications, she suddenly noticed that her _head_ no longer ached - and what blessed relief _that_ was!

Then, not as suddenly but quite inexorably, she became aware of a very different sort of ache stirring within her. All this _Domestic Blis_ s was surely to blame: the sensual comfort of her bed, her improving health, and, the most vital element, Sherlock curled close around her, his arm draped possessively over her middle, his large hand splayed casually, protectively, over her breasts.

 _What do you need?_

The answer was evident, though a little unexpected, considering how very ill she'd been - and still was, to a degree. She suspected she had a low-grade fever, even now.

But there was no denying it. She was thirty-five years old, and thoroughly aware of the various signs that she _desired._ It had always been her default state when in close proximity to Sherlock. Sense and logic had nothing to do with it. Even at his lowest points (and she'd seen some that were truly abysmal) she was drawn to him, moth to maddening flame. A mere flu bug, however devastating, would hardly serve to hinder its progression.

She did wonder if his own feelings on the matter would align with her own. Was it even right to ask him to risk contagion merely to accommodate her needs in the manner to which she had recently become so happily accustomed?

She frowned over the question. Bit her lip. Squirmed slightly (which was rather delightful with him lying so close). Placed her hand lightly over his.

These subtle marks of inner turmoil failed to wake him, however, so she stilled, letting her mind drift, reviewing scenes from the last two days. She was still amazed that he'd been so patient with her, and at the thoughtful care he'd provided.

 _I like to be needed, too._

His words, spoken in admonition, had been proven to her beyond doubt.

And heavens, she _had_ needed him. She had no idea what she would have done if he had not rushed to her side, just ahead of the storm. She had never been so ill in her life.

He had waved away her tearful protests that he shouldn't have come, shouldn't linger to expose himself; quickly and accurately assessed the situation, and summoned John; then ignored her complaints as the foolish ravings of one in a fever dream: John should not be dragged out in such weather; it was wrong to ask him to leave Rosie at such a time; antibiotics were useless against influenza; she had no wish to be poked and prodded when it would do no good, when she was feeling so very ill, and he was cruel to insist she bear it, she only wanted to rest, why wouldn't he just let her _rest?_ She'd refused the thoughtfully chosen Thai takeaway he'd brought, and ignored the beautiful roses, too. Her ungrateful petulance was so out of character that she should have known she was worse off than she'd realized. Well for her that Sherlock had realized it, otherwise he must have abandoned her in disgust.

Summoning reserves of strength, she'd managed to smile for John when he finally came to her, but her stoicism was short-lived, failing her entirely when it came to his prescribed treatment.

But Sherlock had only remarked, "For a doctor, you're remarkably squeamish about needles," gently teasing even as he'd held her, allowing her to soak his expensive shirt with tears and squeezing her hand hard as John did his worst.

Once John had left, and the medication for her aching head had begun to take effect, she had become far calmer and more sensible, and was even able to acknowledge the justice of the scold Sherlock had given her, accusing her first of vanity, and then of not wanting to need his help. Both of which, to her shame, had been quite true.

After that, things had gone more smoothly. She had accepted his help, in spite of a certain lingering awkwardness (on _her_ part; _he_ was merely annoyingly smug that he'd put her on the back foot for a change), and the next morning, after a decent night's sleep, she had felt appreciably better. The medication John had prescribed had worked - and was still. She would not be finished with the course of antibiotic tablets for two more days.

Two more days of rest. And quiet. And snow.

It astonished her not only that Sherlock had shown such forbearance, but that he did not seem at all bored. On the contrary, once she'd managed to stop weeping and gave herself over to his care, he had seemed to derive a certain pleasure from the situation. He'd brought his laptop and some books to keep him occupied, some clothing to supplement the things he already kept at her flat, and he'd seemed quite content to be there, lounging on the bed next to her for the greater part of the day, cheerfully deducing her every need.

She had never felt so _cared fo_ r - not since she was a very young child.

And now… he was stirring. Finally!

His arm tightened around her, and he breathed deep as he nuzzled her hair. "Good morning," came his rumbling voice,

Lord, even just his _voice_...

She drew his hand to her lips, then, and kissed his fingers, one by one.

He gave a sound of amusement and moved. Turned her onto her back, half covering her, one knee between her legs. "Feeling better this morning are we?" There was laughter in his eyes. He kissed her cheek.

She hugged him close, her heart thudding. She said, soft in his ear, "My headache is gone. But I'm… um... beset in other ways, I'm afraid."

She felt him smile, then saw it as he drew back to look down at her.. " _Beset._ What an interestingly Victorian expression. Descriptive, though." He kissed her forehead, then continued, "I'm not sure it would be wise to indulge in such strenuous activity at this point in your recovery. You have been very ill. In fact, it's my belief that you still have a fever." These words would have dismayed her more if he had not, at the same time, been handily undoing all the buttons of her plaid flannel pyjama shirt. "Let me see," he murmured, and drew the soft material aside.

The air was cool on her bare skin - and his hand was cool as well. She shivered slightly, sighing and half closing her eyes.

He kissed her cheek, then murmured, "Feverish, just as I thought. But what do you need, love? Tell me."

But there was no chance, his hand had drifted down, slipped under the elastic of her pink cotton pants, then lower. She opened her mouth on a small gasp, breathless, then rendered speechless. Not silent, no. But forming a coherent reply was out of the question, and would be for a considerable time to come.

But later - afterwards - when they lay facing each other on the pillow, hearts gradually slowing, both temporarily sated, Molly rubbed her nose against his and said, "You… I need _you_. Only you. _Always you_."

And he smiled again, and gathered her close, content.

~.~


	17. Grown Up

_**~ Grown Up ~**_

 _For the 'When?' prompt, a sequel to Chapter 11: 'Broken'._

* * *

In spite of having been warned via text message, Molly was unable to refrain from shedding tears of relief on receiving her two boys back at the Baker Street residence, though only seven-year-old William was awake to be imprinted with lifelong guilt thereby, his younger brother having succumbed to the stress of the last sixteen hours shortly after Mycroft had taken him from Sherlock in Regent's Park. Jon (Mycroft's namesake and an exceptional lad in many of the best ways) was slight but well-knit for a five year old, and he was a dead weight against his uncle's shoulder as he was carried up the two flights of stairs to the room he and his brother shared. Mycroft laid Jon on the bed with relief, and managed to remove the boy's trainers, socks, and trousers before tucking him in.

As Mycroft stood up again, Molly came in with young Will, who looked ready to drop, cheeks wet, mouth tragic.

Molly said, "Thank you, Mycroft - for everything. I'll put Will to bed and then go to bed myself, Daisy's bound to be up early, as usual. But Sherlock's waiting for you downstairs."

"I'll bid you goodnight, then," Mycroft said. He saw that Will was peeking up at him, sad and uncertain, and he gave the boy a small, encouraging smile, and a pat on the shoulder before taking his leave.

It was strange how clearly it all came back: the world-ending anguish of a child's perspective. Though there was also the greater understanding of a parent's burden. Sherlock's experiences of marriage and fatherhood were certainly proving to be invaluable sources of information and interest.

And who was he fooling? He, too, would give his life for any of them.

Thankfully, Sherlock was waiting in the kitchen with a shot of good Scotch whiskey for each of them.

"For medicinal purposes," Sherlock said, handing him one of the glasses.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, and tossed it back.

Sherlock laughed, then did the same.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out his pack of Silk Cuts. "For medicinal purposes?" He raised a brow.

Sherlock gave a crooked smile. "Alright. _Just the one_."

Little Brother poured them each another two fingers of Scotch, and then they repaired to Mrs. Hudson's back garden, an area about the size of a postage stamp, but pleasant with a small patch of grass edged in flowers, and pots of various herbs. They shut the back door and sat down on the brick steps.

The air was soft, and summer-warm. The stars were bright in the night sky.

They sat in companionable silence for a while.

Sherlock's cigarette was nearly gone when he finally spoke. "Remember a few years ago, when you asked me when the hell I was going to grow up?"

Mycroft smiled at the wry tone. "I believe I've had my answer to that question for some time now."

Sherlock carefully stubbed out his cigarette on the brick, then pocketed the remains for later disposal. Mrs. Hudson, though easy-going in many respects, could be a stickler about some things.

Then Sherlock picked up his glass and said, thoughtfully, "It's not all it's cracked up to be."

Mycroft studied him. There would be a few more grey hairs amid his brother's curls after this day's doings, without a doubt. "It… er… _is what it is_?" he offered.

Sherlock laughed softly. He was tired, and there was some bitterness in his expression. And resignation. But when he spoke again, eventually, his voice was a bit rough. "I love them, Mycroft."

Mycroft turned away. Looked up at the stars again. Pressed his lips together, briefly, then replied, "I know you do," his own voice equally unsteady.

Sherlock set his glass down and ran his hands through his hair, breathing deep. Then he straightened - _Soldiers_ \- and got to his feet.

For a minute he just stood there, his back to Mycroft. His tall, still figure was silhouetted against the night sky, his messy curls looking like some odd halo about his head.

Then he turned back and said, "What is it? Two A.M.? We need to get some sleep. I hope I don't need to tell you how much I appreciate your help tonight?"

With relief, Mycroft noted that his brother's expression had lightened considerably. "Not at all," he replied. "I'm quite attached to them myself, you know."

Sherlock held out his hand. Mycroft took it, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

~.~


	18. Plus One -or- Amanda By Moonlight

_**~ Plus One -or- Amanda by Moonlight ~**_

 _Season 4 compliant and set after Rosie's birth in 'The Six Thatchers', this is for the 'How?' prompt, and the First Date prompt for May 15th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017._

* * *

"Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly said, with what could only be termed a proud smile.

Mrs. Amanda Hooper smiled slightly, too, but only to mask the disapprobation - no, _fury!_ \- that rose in her breast at the sight of her daughter's nemesis, a man who, for all his purported intelligence, had for years failed to see what was right in front of his nose, effectively ruining Molly's chance to live a happy and fruitful life - and by fruitful she _did_ mean grandchildren, damn the man's ice blue eyes straight to hell!

Apparently he was perceptive enough to realize there was something amiss, for there was a wariness in his expression as he said in a smooth, deep voice, "How do you do," and shook her hand.

That voice, that unusually handsome face, the slim, yet powerful physique, now clothed in a perfectly cut bespoke suit that was probably worth more than Molly's entire wardrobe - well, it was obvious why her daughter found him attractive. Mrs. Hooper's ire increased, though she allowed her smile to grow broader - perhaps a trifle on the sharky side. She said, breezily, "You're Molly's plus one tonight, I take it? How _kind_ of you to step into the breach, since she and Tom are no longer… _well.._."

"Not at all," Holmes murmured, looking even more wary.

"Mum!" Molly protested. "It's been months since… since Tom and I-"

"-agreed you should not suit after all, yes, yes, I know," Mrs. Hooper gave a sad sigh and allowed her smile to turn wistful for a moment, but then said to Sherlock, "So, do you like weddings? This one has gone very well so far, I think - but Molly's cousin was always a perfectionist, and her mother is the same, and has such good taste. Every detail taken into account, just beautifully planned."

"It certainly seems… _er_ … an exemplary function thus far," Holmes managed.

Mrs. Hooper gave a bark of laughter, startling Molly and alarming Holmes. She said, "Oh! Oh, forgive me, but what a wonderfully insidious swipe!"

"Ummm…" Sherlock said, apparently bereft of words.

But Molly slipped her arm in his and said pointedly, "We're _both_ enjoying ourselves, and Sherlock is very fond of dancing, so it should be lots of fun, later."

"Are you, indeed?" Mrs. Hooper exclaimed. She looked up at Sherlock and said innocently, "Do you often take Molly to _trip the light fantastic_?"

He looked somewhat horrified, for of course he'd never in five years asked her out at all - ' _Our relationship isn't like that' my eye!_ thought Mrs. Hooper viciously - and Molly was little less affected.

Mrs. Hooper pursed her lips.

Holmes, however, seemed to detect her vindictiveness, and turned a trifle grim. "I haven't had a chance to take Molly out dancing as yet, which is one reason I was happy she asked me to accompany her to your niece's wedding." He glanced at Molly and gave her a comforting smile.

Molly returned the smile, and actually made sheep's eyes at the blighter. Mrs. Hooper ground her teeth. However, before she could say more, dinner was announced.

"Oh, dear!" said Molly, quickly. "Mum, you'd better go lend your support to Aunt Betty, I can see she's flailing a bit, over there by the ice sculpture. Sherlock and I are seated at one of the lower tables, but we'll see you again, before we leave, at least." She tugged at the man's arm. "Let's go get a cup of champagne punch before we sit down."

" _Punch?_ " Holmes blurted, with loathing.

"Come _on!_ " Molly said, briefly looking daggers at him.

Holmes muttered something unintelligible, nodded to Mrs. Hooper, and allowed himself to be hauled away.

Mrs. Hooper sniffed, her expression turning stony. She might have been temporarily balked of her prey, but If Sherlock Holmes thought he would escape her wrath that easily, he could think again.

 **o-o-o-o**

It wasn't until after the dancing had been going on for some time that Mrs. Hooper found a chance to corner the posh, overgrown schoolboy who'd cast his bizarre enchantment on her poor daughter. After Molly's cousin Bitsy and her new spouse, Harold, had completed their first dance as husband and wife, Holmes led Molly onto the floor and Mrs. Hooper had the questionable satisfaction of watching them move gracefully about for some half an hour, looking quite as though they were meant to be together. Holmes was indeed a very good dancer - probably had lessons as a boy. She gave a snort of laughter at one point, imagining him as a stroppy teen, all arms and legs and sulky expression as he'd led out some spotty chit with braces and baby fat. If Amanda ever chanced to meet the boy's mother she would ask for the amusing details.

Finally, however, nature called, Molly excused herself to the ladies', and Holmes slipped out one of the glass doors leading to the terrace.

Mrs. Hooper followed him.

It was a cold evening as spring had barely begun, and the terrace was virtually deserted but for the two of them, a circumstance that Amanda considered to be proof that Providence had blessed her mission. As she crossed the marble expanse, Sherlock was at the balustrade, lighting up a cigarette, and Molly's mother chose to make this execrable habit the subject of her opening volley.

"Another of your addictions, Mr. Holmes? Not as reformed a character as the tabloids would have us believe, apparently."

He had turned as the sound of her footsteps had reached his ears and now, as she approached, she heard him swear under his breath as he straightened to his full height and looked down his nose at her in a way that seemed a composite of a whole roomful of portraits in the National Gallery: rich, entitled, and a complete bastard.

Well… not _complete,_ perhaps. Molly would hardly have given her heart to one wholly given over to selfish depravity. But still…

"Mrs. Hooper," said Holmes, stiffly, "I am not entirely certain why you've taken me in such dislike-"

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes? And here my daughter has described your powers of deduction in such extravagant terms - but of course anyone may be taken in by a handsome face." She narrowed her eyes. "Since we are being frank, perhaps you will explain to me precisely what you were doing the morning of June 2nd last year?"

He frowned, but for a moment only. "Your... birthday?"

"Indeed. My birthday. Molly and I were to go to breakfast and do some shopping, and I arrived at her flat just a trifle earlier than originally expected."

He scowled. "Yes. I remember. I suppose you saw me?"

"Indeed. I _saw_ you climbing out of my daughter's bedroom window, and in a state of undress that _she_ might have found gratifying but that _I_ certainly did not! And this when she was still, to my certain knowledge, _engaged to Tom Blakely_."

She could not be sure in the moonlight, but she thought he might be flushing.

"Ma'am, I assure you-"

"There is nothing you can say that will _assure_ me, Mr. Holmes. I know my daughter, and have no doubt that it was _you_ who led her astray, _you_ who took advantage of her kind heart, _you_ who rose from the grave and swooped back into London, effectively destroying her relationship to one who was not only willing but eager to make her happy!"

"I did nothing of the sort - and anyway, it was a ridiculous match! They were entirely unsuited."

"Because he wasn't _you?_ "

" _Because she was too good for him!_ " And then he added, in a much quieter tone, "Just as she's too good for me - which you would do well to remember."

Amanda gaped. "You can't possibly ask me to believe-"

"-I want you to _believe_ I have Molly's best interests at heart! Because that's the truth."

He sounded not only sincere, but regretful, and for a moment Amanda's wrath faded. But no. Molly's happiness was at stake. She drew herself up. "It will not do. Molly has told me little of your relationship, save that you and she are friends as well as colleagues, and are now co-Godparents to the daughter of Dr. Watson and his wife. Yet one thing is certain: Molly has determined that, in spite of your many shortcomings - and I have no doubt that they are _legion_ \- you have somehow cast every other man of her acquaintance into the shade! It doesn't matter a particle whether her single state is due to her strange predilection for your uncooperative person or to your own dog-in-the-manger attitude toward any man who dares to enter her orbit - very likely it's a bloody perfect storm of both! But there is one fact that is undeniable: you have compromised my daughter, Mr. Holmes, and _it will not do!_ "

"Compromised! I swear-"

"Her _heart_ , idiot boy!"

He stared.

So she went on. "I will give you _one year_. You will either find a way to free her, or you will alter time and space, or do whatever else it takes to be a man worthy to join my daughter at the altar. Is that clear?"

He now looked exasperated. "Setting aside the absurdity of that entire sentence, have you ever thought that she might not wish to marry?"

Amanda snorted derisively. " _Ask_ her Mr. Holmes. But of course, you've never even asked her _out to dinner,_ have you?"

He was effectively silenced, and, she thought, at least somewhat shamed, but then he suddenly looked up and said quietly, "Here she comes," and a smile of both relief and welcome lightened his expression - and undeniably increased his already considerable good looks.

" _One year_ , Mr. Holmes," Amanda said, firmly, and wished for approximately the millionth time that her dear husband was still alive. If ever a young scoundrel needed a thrashing...

Holmes glanced at her impatiently. "Yes, all right."

"What about _one year_?" asked Molly, coming up to them.

Amanda said, mildly, "We were just considering how much can happen in a year, weren't we, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock did not reply, but took Molly's hand and tucked it in his arm. "Come, let's go in and dance some more. It's bloody _freezing_ out here."

"I know!" Molly exclaimed. "Mum, you're like to catch your death without your wrap!"

"Oh, no," said Amanda. "There's far too much to look forward to. But it i _s_ time to go in - Bitsy will be throwing her bouquet any time now, and you won't like to miss your chance to catch it and be the next one married."

Molly's laughter at this was rather subdued, and Sherlock gave Amanda a _look_ over Molly's shoulder.

Amanda pulled a face at him and silently mouthed, _One Year!_

 **o-o-o-o**

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Amanda Hooper rose from her bed the following morning. The reception had not ended until the wee hours, though Molly and Sherlock had taken their leave well before midnight, having the long drive back to London before them.

In the clear light of a new day, Amanda did wonder if she had been entirely wise to confront Sherlock in such a manner. Molly's happiness was all, of course, but if it was dependent upon the erratic consulting detective, a favorable outcome was far from a certainty. Still, what was done was done. Amanda thoughtfully poured herself a cup of her favorite tea, stirred in some milk and honey, and took a sip.

 _Heaven!_

And there was the sound of her mobile phone.

With a groan of annoyance, she went into the sitting room to fetch the device, but she brightened when she discovered that it was Molly calling.

"Hello, dear!" Amanda said, cheerily. "I thought you had to work today."

"I do!" Molly replied. "I'm at work right now, though it's slow enough that I thought I'd give you a call. Late evening?"

"I didn't get home until past three! But your Aunt was so pleased with the way things turned out last night. I must say, it all went splendidly. Did you and Mr. Holmes have a good time?"

"Oh, yes! We danced and danced."

"And looked lovely doing it," said Amanda with complete truth.

Molly said, archly, "Sherlock _is_ very good looking."

"Now Molly, you know what I meant."

"Yes, all right. But… Mummy…"

"Yes?" Amanda stiffened, suddenly nervous.

"You didn't _say_ anything to Sherlock, did you? I mean... well…"

"What on earth am I supposed to have said?" Amanda asked, her heart beating appreciably faster.

"I don't know but… he's asked me out! To dinner - and we're going dancing after. It's unprecedented, I assure you."

"Then it's about time, isn't it? It's probably because he's discovered what a good dancer you are."

Molly laughed. "But I'm not!. Not ballroom dancing, at least. It's just so easy dancing with him. He leads so well, it feels rather like floating on a cloud."

"That's just how it should be. And you two do make a lovely couple."

"Thank you, Mum. I must say, I never thought… but just lately… I mean..."

"Molly, dear, sometimes things just take a little longer than one would prefer. That doesn't mean those things aren't destined to be."

"Perhaps," Molly said, a smile in her voice. "I suppose time will tell. Thank you, Mum."

"I'm not sure why you're thanking me, but you're more than welcome, my darling. But really, Molly: don't you feel it's about time your Prince Charming was roused from his long sleep?"

"Prince Charming! Oh, he'd _hate_ that!" Molly exclaimed, genuinely amused.

And Amanda, calming herself and newly confident that time _would_ tell, chuckled and took another sip of her tea.

~.~


	19. Different

_**~ Different ~**_

 _Pure fluff for the 'If' prompt, and the First Kiss prompt for May 16th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017, with thanks to the creators of 'Aspects of Love' for the verse._

* * *

 _ **I want to be the first man you remember  
**_ _ **I want to be the last one you forget  
**_ _ **I want to be the one you'll always turn to  
**_ _ **I want to be the one you won't regret…**_

 **o-o-o**

This birth had been easier than either of the boys' had been - "What did I tell you?" Mummy had said to Molly after each protracted, agonizing instance, and with a sidelong glare at Sherlock that he hadn't bothered to refute, since it wasn't something one could reasonably expect ever to live down. But little Daisy's mother was still very tired for all that, and now that she'd given her daughter a good feeding, both his girls looked to be ready for a nap.

"She should be changed, can you do it?" Molly asked, her eyes already half closed.

Sherlock was there in an instant, carefully lifting the swaddled, sated morsel of femininity from Molly's arms. Molly was smiling sleepily up at him, and she was so lovely, his brave and clever wife, that he had to bend and place a tender kiss on her forehead. "I love you," he murmured. The words came as easily as breathing now, yet each time he uttered them he was reminded of that first time: his heart cracking open, light pouring in…

He would have been lost, if not for that love that had made him human.

Molly said, "I love you, too," and let her eyes drift closed, the picture of trust and contentment.

And he was smiling like an idiot.

But really, he _would_ have been an idiot if he hadn't been smiling, he reflected, as he carried the baby to the changing table that was tucked into a corner of the room. The place was more homelike than he'd expected, and the midwives that staffed the birthing centre had thus far been cheerful, brisk, and efficient, making the experience almost pleasant. As pleasant as possible, at any rate. But now the worst was over and it was time for some fun.

It was rather like receiving the best Christmas gift ever, he reflected as he gently unwrapped the pink bundle. Daisy gave a small, huffing sigh, but was otherwise too milk-drunk to object either to the cooler air or the lack of restraints, and as Sherlock freed her from her gown he was able, for the first time, to look his fill at the perfect little body, the delicate hands with their tiny, pearly nails, the dainty feet. She was only nineteen inches long, his Daisy, where Will and Jon had each been twenty-one, and her faint fuzz of hair was distinctly strawberry blond.

"You'll be very like your mum, Miss Holmes, I'd lay good money on it," he told her as he expertly changed her nappy - and how gratifying it was to be proficient at the task, rather than clumsy and hesitant as he had felt with newborn Will five and a half years ago. "And hopefully," he continued, "you'll have sense enough to be like her in all ways, not just in appearance. She's the best woman I know, completely worthy of respect and emulation as well as the love you owe her as your mum. But there, you're a sensible girl, and won't cause her a moment's anxiety, will you now, sweetheart?"

Having completed his task, he bent over her, the tiny, pleasingly plump body bracketed by his forearms, his hands looking enormous loosely curved around her head. Her face was remarkably pretty, even so soon after the trauma of birth, and her exquisite lips seemed to twitch against a contented smile.

A feeling of solemnity came over him, a weight of love, a welling of protective instinct that was somehow new and strange though Daisy was their third child. He straightened a little, took each of the tiny feet between forefinger and thumb and tenderly kissed each in turn, sealing a silent vow.

"I told you girls are different," came a very familiar, amused voice.

He looked up toward the door and there was John, sporting a crooked smile, and seven year old Rosie, looking fit to burst.

"Can we see her?" Rosie said in an eager whisper.

Sherlock, not quite trusting his voice as yet, summoned them with a jerk of his head. The Watsons hurried over to worship.

"Oh, she's lovely!" Rosie breathed.

"Molly did a fine job," John agreed. "Have you decided on her name, yet?"

Sherlock straightened and cleared his throat. "Her name," he managed to say quite steadily, "Is Margaret Rosamund Holmes."

Rosie looked up quickly. " _Really?_ "

"Yep. We'll call her Daisy, though, since obviously there can be only one Rosie in our family."

John was grinning, and gave his daughter a hug.

And Sherlock turned back to Daisy, who was stirring a bit. "Time to get you swaddled again, ma'am," he told her, and proceeded to do just that. Rosie squeezed up next to him, fascinated, so he explained the procedure in detail to her.

John, however, had looked toward the bed and saw that Daisy's mother had opened her eyes. As he walked over, she greeted him with a weary smile. John said, "Excellent work there, Molly. She's a keeper."

"She is!" Molly agreed. "Did Sherlock tell you her name?"

"He did. I doubt Rosie will ever get over that."

"She's my baby sister," Rosie declared, turning to them as Sherlock lifted the neatly wrapped infant and carried her back to her mother. "And wait until Will and Jon hear I saw her first!"

Sherlock groaned. "And so it begins."

John laughed. "The sibling rivalry? Or the love?"

"They rather go hand in hand, don't they?" Sherlock said, with hard-won philosophy. With some reluctance, he gave Daisy back to her mother, who tucked her into bed beside her.

"They do go hand in hand," agreed John, wincing as he thought of his own sister. "And if anyone would know it would be a Holmes. Fortunately you keep a Hooper about you. They're sensible creatures, so that should help."

"I expect it will," said Sherlock, and, very much in agreement with this sentiment, bent and sealed his wife's pleased smile with a kiss.

 **o-o-o**

 ** _I want to be the first man you remember  
_ _The very first to sweep you off your feet  
_ _I want to be the one you always turn to  
_ _The first to make your young heart miss a beat…_**

 **~.~**


	20. Cake for Breakfast

_**~ Cake for Breakfast ~**_

 _For the 'He' prompt, and the First Argument prompt for May 18th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017_

* * *

" _No, you bloody cannot have cake for breakfast!_ " was the roar that greeted Molly as she trudged up the steps to 221B after a very long night at Barts. It had been her first graveyard shift since Daisy's birth, an emergency for which Mike Stamford had begged all hands' assistance. She'd been glad to do it, but she'd forgotten how exhausting such hours could be when one was no longer used to them. But Sherlock's shout, no doubt directed at their young sons, made her sputter with laughter, and she suddenly felt lighthearted.

She trotted up the few remaining steps and as she entered the flat she grinned at Sherlock, saying, " _You've_ certainly changed your tune, now that you're a staid middle-aged man and a father!"

Cries of _Mum! Mummy!_ _Can't we have cake? It's almost like scones, You let us have scones for breakfast all the time!_ , rang out from Will and Jon as they rushed to her, nearly knocking her over with their enthusiastic hugs.

"Thank God you're home," said Sherlock, looking both frazzled and angry. "I don't care what Stamford says, no more graveyard shifts for you until the baby's weaned, she was up half the night, refused to take a bottle, and now here are these brats trying to filch cake for breakfast when I specifically told them hands off!"

"You said there'd be scones," Will complained resentfully.

"Will," said Molly, sharply, "that's enough. Though Mrs. Hudson did say she'd be baking this morning." She turned to Sherlock. "Where is she? Is she alright?"

"She's fine, but her sister was taken ill and she's gone off to Devon."

"Oh, no!" Molly exclaimed, "Is it serious?"

"No, just a virus of some sort, but she's pretty knocked up and Hudders is likely to be gone a few days. I just hope she doesn't catch it herself."

"I'm sure she'll be careful-" But Molly's words were cut short by a wail from the bedroom.

Sherlock groaned in frustration and gripped his already messy curls. " _I just got her to sleep!_ "

Molly said, "Well, one can hardly blame her, with all the shouting. But don't worry, I'll give her a good feeding and she'll go back down like a lamb - I'm fairly desperate to nurse, so it's as well she woke up. See if she needs a fresh nappy, and I'll start some porridge for these young savages, how does that sound?" She smiled down at her adorable (if occasionally maddening) sons. "Porridge with a bit of butter and honey?"

"Yes, please!" said Jon eagerly.

"Alright," said Will, sulkily. "But can we try the cake later?"

Sherlock growled, "You so much as _breathe_ on that cake and you'll regret it. Your uncle sent that over specifically for your mother!"

"Did he really?" Molly raised her brows, surprised and delighted.

"It's Princess Cake, from the dinner he attended last night at the Swedish embassy. He said it reminded him of you - or wrote, actually, he sent the box round by courier with a note attached. Talk about misuse of government funds. _Yes, Daisy, I'm coming!_ "

As he stalked off to the bedroom, Molly herded her little sons into the kitchen, sat them down with half a banana each to tide them over, and proceeded to put their porridge together. It was only half finished cooking when Sherlock came in with a snuffling, tear-stained Daisy.

"Here, you take this one," said Sherlock, handing the baby over, "and I'll finish making breakfast. And I may be middle-aged and a father, but I am not and never will be _staid!_ "

Molly chuckled. "I thought that would rankle." She sat down at the table, and as she prepared to nurse her eager and now smiling daughter she continued. "But don't' you remember our first real argument? About _you_ wanting cake for breakfast!"

He frowned at her. "That was _years_ ago!"

"Not fair, Dad!" said Will.

"You be quiet or you can do _without_ breakfast," Sherlock told him.

" _I_ remember it very clearly," Molly told Will and Jon. "Uncle John was away and your father wanted me to assist him with an experiment, and promised me breakfast if I'd come over after my shift. But Mrs. Hudson had gone out with some friends and the only thing edible in this flat was half a chocolate cake John had bought a few days before. I was not happy, to say the least."

Sherlock shook his head. "What a fuss you made!"

"I'd been working all night and I was starving! And my mouth was all set for that fry-up and scones you'd promised me. And then trying to fob me off with tea and that horrid cake? You can't blame me for being enraged."

"I took you to breakfast."

"So you did - and _pouted_ the whole time."

"Counts as our first date, at least."

"It does not! You didn't _ask_ me out, I just insisted you take me."

"And _I_ just gave in," Sherlock huffed, then added provocatively, "No make-up sex on offer, either. I'd say you still owe me for that, Dr. Hooper."

Molly gaped. "But it wasn't… we weren't… " But then she saw the teasing glint in his eye.

"What's make-up sex?" asked Jon.

Molly felt herself blushing, and gave Sherlock a glare.

But he merely looked down his nose at her and said to Jon, "It's when mummy and daddy cuddle and hug and kiss for _hours_."

"Ewwwww!" said both boys together.

Molly couldn't help laughing. "You'll understand when you grow up," she told them, "just as your father has now seen the light, about that _and_ about cake for breakfast."

"Well, not entirely," Sherlock said, giving the porridge a final stir before taking the pot off the flame. "As an adult, I reserve the right to eat cake for breakfast whenever the mood strikes. You two, however, will eat porridge and like it." He ignored the boys' protests as he poured the cereal into their bowls, added just a dab of butter, a dribble of honey, and a moat of cold milk to each, and presented them with a flourish. "There you go. Eat up."

"Or starve?" Will said, cocking his head.

"Exactly so, precocious brat," returned his father, carefully not smiling.

Molly said, "It looks delicious!"

"There's enough for you, if you don't want cake."

"Oh, porridge, please, by all means! We'll share the cake later - _if_ everyone is very well behaved today and allows mummy to catch up on her sleep."

Sherlock prepared two more bowls, one for himself, as well, and presently the whole family was peacefully enjoying a nutritious breakfast.

This state of affairs only lasted for a very short time, however. There was suddenly a rap at the door of the flat, a raucous voice calling "Hallo!" and the sound of a light footfall that resolved itself into the person of Rosie Watson. "We're going to the zoo!" she announced happily as she entered the kitchen. "Can Will and Jon come with us? Do you _all_ want to come? Oh, _please_ say yes!"

The boys, who adored their lively "cousin", had already burst into a chorus of, "Can we? Please?" when John walked into the kitchen, grinning at his daughter's enthusiasm, but saying, "That's enough, finish your breakfast, lads. Settle down, Rosie, can't you see they're still eating?"

"I'm finished!" cried Will, pushing his bowl away, and Jon, of course, followed suit.

Sherlock was eyeing the considerable amount of uneaten porridge in their bowls with disapproval, but before he could say anything, Molly told the boys, "You must finish it _all_ , and quickly, too, if you want to go." When she saw them obediently retrieve their bowls and tuck in, she turned to John. "Would you mind just taking the boys? I was at Barts all night, and Daisy wasn't happy about it at all."

"Ah!" said John, and turned to Sherlock, not quite deadpan. "So that's why you look like something the cat dragged in."

Sherlock sighed. "I'd tell you to shut up, but if you're going to take these brats off our hands for a while I'd do better to kiss your feet. Metaphorically speaking, at least."

"You're certain you don't mind, John?" asked Molly, once more.

But John chuckled. "They'll be fine - or they know they'd better be, at least."

"I'll take care of them," said Rosie confidently.

Will grinned, and Jon looked at her adoringly and said, "Rosie _always_ takes good care of us!"

 **o-o-o**

A very few minutes later, the zoo-goers headed out, descending the stairs like a herd of small elephants. Molly and Sherlock sat listening to the racket fade away, and end as the door to 221B was closed behind them.

Sherlock sat back with an exaggerated sigh of relief. "John is a bloody _saint!_ "

Molly smiled. "Rosie, too. And, incidentally, your daughter. Look!" Daisy had fallen sound asleep while nursing, and now lay back in her mother's arms, limp and entirely lost to dreamland.

Sherlock's eyes were soft upon his baby girl, but after a few moments he raised them to catch Molly's gaze. Their softness took on a distinct glint. "It's nap time and no mistake," he murmured. "And wasn't there a recent mention of make-up sex? I could have sworn…"

"There was. It was you who mentioned it, actually - though you owe _me_ , Mr. Holmes, not the other way around."

"You have my sincere apologies for ever indicating otherwise," he said as he stood up and came around to her side of the table to take Daisy from her. "Now, if you would care to accompany me to the bedroom, we'll stash this one in her cot and I can begin to make amends."

But Molly just sat there, a tired, silly smile on her face. _Amends_. _And a long nap after. And Princess Cake. What did I do to deserve such happiness?_ She sighed blissfully, and said aloud, "I love you, Mr. Holmes."

He rolled his eyes and, pretending to lose patience, said, low but intense, "I know you do, isn't that the bloody point? Come _on_ , Hooper! Get your sweet arse off that chair and into my bed _immediately!_ "

He led the way, carrying the baby, and she followed, chuckling.

It was only later, when they'd finished and lay in each other's arms, sated and exhausted and on the edge of much needed sleep, that she heard him whisper, "I love you, too, Mrs. Holmes. More than my life," and she had to rouse herself to kiss him, just once more.

~.~


	21. Face to Face

_**~ Face to Face ~**_

 _For the 'First I Love You' prompt for May 19th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017_

* * *

Eurus was safely on her way back to Sherrinford in a high security vehicle; a shaken but uninjured Mycroft was going to be looked after, per his brother's request to _Greg_ (the use of Lestrade's proper first name just one more shock to add to the mountain of them, though certainly that was a happier one than most); and John had finally stopped shivering under the blanket they'd given him, now that he and Sherlock were in the warm and comfortable back seat of a government-owned car, headed away from the trainwreck that was Musgrave.

"God, it'll be bloody _amazing_ to be home again with Rosie!" John blurted, then instantly remembered and turned quickly to Sherlock. "But you're _homeless!_ Are you going to stay with us while they fix up 221B?"

"No. I mean… it's kind of you to offer, John, but…I'm not sure… "

John stared, for a moment confused at his friend's uncertainty. The light was dim in the back seat of the car, and Sherlock's expression almost unreadable, but there was something in his tone, and in the way he held himself that brought back to John the one time during this whole ordeal that the man had actually lost it completely. "It's Molly. You're going to go see her?"

Sherlock stared out at the pre-dawn landscape rushing past. He was silent for a bit, and then, when he spoke, his voice wasn't entirely steady. "I have to explain to her…" His voice trailed off: not quite despair, but pretty close.

" _And_ get those cameras out of her house," John reminded him.

"Yes." The word was clipped and Sherlock seemed to stiffen, furious on Molly's behalf. But then the hopelessness set in again.

 _Oh, Lord_. John said, rather gently, "She'll forgive you. She loves you, Sherlock. Always has!"

Sherlock turned to look at him again, his face a pale oval. "She might very well forgive me the phone call - God knows that's only the latest instance of abuse I've flung at her. But it's the larger picture I'm concerned about, and that she soon will be. The one where she's _not safe -_ and never has been. Because of me."

They were both silent for a bit, each considering the truth of those words.

But finally, John frowned. "She wasn't one of Moriarty's targets. He didn't know."

Sherlock shrugged a bit, but nodded, too. "Yes. It's only since my return to London, I suppose. Her role in my… my _death…_ was obvious enough to anyone interested in putting two and two together. But the press didn't run with it, and I became lax. Thought I could… _use_ her again. Invade her space with impunity."

"Your favorite bolthole. How long had that been going on?"

"Well… years. But I rarely stayed. Not until Lazarus. I needed a few days to recover-"

"Were you _hurt?_ " John, in his anger over that whole business, had never asked, and now felt a sudden twinge of guilt.

"There were some physical effects, but it was mostly… well. It was difficult, realizing the extent of… what I'd done. To you and… everyone. That I'd actually been…"

"Loved?"

"Yes." He gave a derisive sniff and quoted himself: " _The grit on the lens_."

" _The fly in the ointment_." John smiled, but mirthlessly.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed. "I stayed with Molly until I was ready to begin the work of dismantling Moriarty's organization. And then, when I returned, I picked up where I'd left off. Not immediately, but fairly quickly."' His eyes glinted. "She was still engaged, of course."

John tried not to laugh. "You bloody scotched that on purpose."

Sherlock cocked his head. "I suppose I did. Though I didn't think of it in quite those terms at the time. But for God's sake, you saw him, John!. It was doomed before it began."

John smiled crookedly at Sherlock's indignation. He decided to go easy on him, refraining from any mention of dogs in mangers, and only said in wonder, "You've loved her for ages, haven't you? And I was so fixated on Irene Adler that I couldn't see it at all."

"Irene Adler is… more like a puzzle to be solved. A case."

"I can see that. A ten, I suppose."

"An eight. Maybe a nine. She's fairly transparent."

"To you, maybe. And what about the texting?"

"It's just part of the game. She gets bored, just as I do."

"I see. And Molly? That's not a game."

"God no!" Sherlock hesitated, then said, with a frown in his voice, "I don't know when it started, or even how, really. And if not for my sister, I might never have put a name to it."

"Eurus and her vivisection. How did she know Molly would make you say it first?"

"She can't have known," Sherlock said, firmly. "That was just icing on her elaborately constructed cake. The words on that coffin were more than enough."

He sounded so grim and stricken at that memory, that John said, "Well, that's it, then. You can't unsay it - though I suppose you could pretend it was a game, explain it away in that context-"

"No. I can't lie to her. Not anymore."

"No," John agreed. "I don't think you can. To her or to yourself. Not after what we've all been through in the last twenty-four hours. And not after Mary."

Sherlock looked up at him, quickly.

But John only said, "You _chose_ Molly, just as I _chose_ Mary - your words, if you'll recall. And of course, I've already told you, that chance doesn't last forever." He gave a short laugh. "I thought I was talking about Irene when I said that, but I can see it, now: you _chose_ Molly Hooper. And she chose you, a long time ago - and with her eyes wide open."

Sherlock was staring at him. "I can't… protect her."

"No, you can't. You do the best you can, within reason, but you're only human, Sherlock, just like the rest of us. You might fail, but it's the trying that counts - and the love that's behind it. You know bloody well you can't put life on hold for fear of death."

They were silent then, for a time, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. John suddenly felt overwhelmed with memories, regret, pain, love. Mary smiled at him, loving him in spite of everything, her blue eyes bright with hard won wisdom, and courage. And tears.

Sherlock finally said, meditatively, "I've lived in fear all my life. It was Jim Moriarty who pointed that out."

" _What?_ " John frowned, abruptly shaken from his own melancholy.

"Well, his ghost, or whatever it was. When I was shot and still unconscious. I asked him why he never felt pain."

"Good God. And what did he say?" John asked, fascinated.

"He said you always feel it, but you don't have to fear it. That it was all good. Pain. Heartbreak. Loss." Sherlock looked at John again. "Shows you're alive, at least."

John gave a sour little bark of laughter. " _That's_ the truth."

Sherlock slid wearily down the leather seat. Looking up at the ceiling, he said, "I always thought of love as something _childish_ , but now… it seems to be the only reasonable response."

"You're growing up, mate," John said, not without sympathy.

He could see that Sherlock was giving a tired smile as he murmured, "Time to put away childish things?"

John nodded. " _Soldiers_."

Sherlock raised a brow. "It seems an odd label in this particular context."

But John shook his head, and there was Mary, smiling at him again. He said softly, "No. For better or worse, it's the very heart of the matter."

~.~


	22. Choices

_**~ Choices ~**_

 _For the 'Choices' prompt, and the Free Choice prompt for May 20th of Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017_

* * *

" _Ribbed for her pleasure_."

"Trojan _twisted?_ "

"Red, white, and blue!"

"Extra thin… hmmm."

" _Warming?_ "

"Oooh, Kiss of _mint._ "

"Glow in the dark!"

"Banana… "

"Bubblegum…"

" _ **Bacon?!**_ " they both said at the same time, overwhelmed and gaping at each other.

If it had been difficult to keep a straight face before, it was impossible now. Molly gave a helpless snort and broke into a fit of giggles, her brows arching comically, and Sherlock grinned broadly, eyes alight and crinkling at the edges, though he chided, "Molly, choosing the right contraceptive is a serious business - though God knows there's not one of these that really sounds inspirational."

"Y-you mean you don't absolutely lust for _**Bacon?**_ " she demanded, then covered her mouth against a peal of laughter.

"It's _you_ that should lust for it, presumably," Sherlock said, still grinning. "But I take it you're not keen on the idea."

"Oh, dear," she said, fanning herself as she tried to stifle her laughter. "No, I don't find bacon particularly sexy. Maybe chocolate?"

"I'm sure they could accommodate you."

"You don't sound very keen, either," she observed, her laughter now subdued, though her dimples still charmed, as did the twinkle in her eye.

"I'm not," he admitted. "Actually, this shop, taken as a whole, is more of a _turn off_ than a _turn on_." He looked about at the rows of shelving that held the widest assortment of sex paraphernalia in London, including the largest selection of condoms in the whole of Western Europe. He wrinkled his nose slightly as he turned back to Molly. "This isn't what it's all about," he said, almost muttering now, wondering a little at himself, and wondering, too, what she might think of him for voicing such an opinion.

But she saw what he meant immediately, because that's who she was. Her laughter quite died away and she stepped close to him, placing a hand on his arm. "No, it's not, is it?" she agreed, and suddenly she was blushing faintly, remembering the moments... interludes... _hours_ of bliss that had, in the last few months, bound them just as surely as the vows they would soon speak before God and man.

Their wedding would take place in five days, on Saturday, at the little grey stone chapel not two miles from his parents' home, where many years ago he'd attended with them, on occasion, to mark various holidays. None of his family was particularly religious, but setting aside belief in a higher power and his own pride in being a man of science, vows were something that he'd always understood deep in his soul. Additionally, in a ceremony that utilized text from the Book of Common Prayer, one might elect to err on the side of faith, so far as possible. Atheism was as much a _belief_ as Christianity, after all… but possibly that debate was best pursued when he was not actually scheduled to stand with his bride at the altar in a few days. Molly would be most upset were he to be struck by lightning, as would their mothers.

He almost gave a snort of laughter.

"What?" she smiled.

His laughter faded and he said, "It's Saturday. Just thinking about it - in a good way, of course. But I hate condoms, did I ever tell you?"

She laughed again, but in sympathy this time. "Well, no, but it rather goes without saying, doesn't it? I don't like them either, but what shall we do, then? We have to use something."

Sherlock frowned. They'd agreed that she should have her IUD removed before the wedding, though they'd had no plans to start trying to conceive immediately. Still, neither of them were getting any younger…

The thought of trying was suddenly terrifying.

Or was it?

"Sherlock?" she said, suspicious. She waved a hand. "Hellooo…"

"Do we?"

"What?"

"Have to use something?"

The question was so weighted, so fraught, that it almost evoked the same feeling as that phone call - but no, how ridiculous. The aftermath, maybe. After they'd dropped John off at his home and the car had moved on through the dank, grey dawn toward Molly's flat, his destiny - _their_ destiny - seeming to hang by a thread…

And obviously she felt the same. She had lost some of her happy color now, and was staring up at him, eyes wide and possibly a little frightened.

The breathless silence held for long seconds.

But then, finally she straightened, looked him in the eye and said, "No."

"No?" His heart, unaccountably, plummeted.

"No. We don't have to use something."

And instantly he was flying again, eyes widening, watching her lips quiver against another smile - a very different one - and saw her flush pink, fresh as spring.

"Molly!" he managed, just above a whisper. Everything fell away as he moved, took her in his arms… she raised her face to his, like a flower to the sun, and only closed her eyes, lashes sweeping against the flawless swell of her cheeks in the instant before their lips met. The kiss was perfect, everything that could be wished, his tenderness a balm to her trembling eagerness, her body fitting against his as though it were made for this one purpose. His arms tightened about her, his fingers carding through her auburn hair a bit, and he matched her smile for smile.

She drew away, just the tiniest fraction of an inch, and breathed against his lips, "I love you!"

"Oh, my God," he whispered, "I love you, too." He moved then, his cheek against hers, and said low in her ear, "Let's go."

He loosened his clasp and she reluctantly disengaged, looking up at him again with something like wonder. "Yes, let's," she said, and tucked her hand in his arm.

He knew he had a fatuous smile on his lips, and, looking around, had to chuckle at a number of gaping faces and, indeed, at the strange and really very inappropriate venue in which they'd made their world-altering choice. He saw that Molly felt exactly the same, too, her shining eyes conveying her amusement without a word.

They ignored everyone, customers and bemused sales clerks alike, as they walked through the shop and out into the London night.

It was the dark of the moon, but the stars shone down, bright as diamonds, as they made their way home.

~.~


	23. Discipline

_**~ Discipline ~**_

 _For Six Sentence Sunday and the 'School' prompt._

* * *

"He called Will a _freak,_ Dad," Jon said, his voice edged with tears of fury, not pain, in spite of the rather spectacular black eye that the older boy had given him, "and just because Will knew what he'd done and told him he should own up and not get the whole class in trouble!"

Sherlock gaped at Jon, and at Will, too, with his cut lip and bloody knuckles, the two battle-scarred boys seated close together on the hard bench outside the Headmaster's office, still awaiting sentence - but he could not help glancing over at Lestrade and, particularly, Donovan, both of whom had accompanied him to the school when he'd been notified his sons would be dismissed for the rest of the day.

Lestrade muttered, "Blimey!", and Donovan had gone absolutely grey.

However, she straightened and took a deep breath, and said to Jon, in a voice redolent of both sympathy and anger, "Jon, I'm not sayin' it's right to wale on some miscreant just because he can't keep 'is ignorant mouth shut, but I can't fault your sense of justice - or your courage - and I think your Dad would agree to that."

Sherlock's lips twitched as their eyes met for the briefest of seconds, and Lestrade gave a chuff of relieved laughter - and then everyone gave a start as the Head's office door swung open and the man himself was there, his supercilious glare fading ludicrously as he realized the Holmes boys' dressing down would have to be rapidly revised in consideration of their father's unexpectedly rapid and well-supported response to the summons.

Sherlock gave the Headmaster a narrow look, then held out his hand to his sons and said, "Come lads, let's get this over so we can get you cleaned up, and get some ice for that eye - and some ice cream, after, I think, since Sally's spoken no more than the truth," and he smiled a bit as they stood and Will put his arm around his brave, belligerent little brother.

~.~


	24. Just Home

_**~ Just Home ~**_

* * *

Molly was finishing up the last of her paperwork when her mobile began to buzz and vibrate a path toward the edge of her desk. She grabbed it and swiped. "John?"

"Molly, I've had to pop 'round to the surgery, bit of an emergency, and Sherlock's watching Rosie."

Her brows rose. "Is Mrs. Hudson there?"

"No." He hesitated, but then went on. "She left early for her Poker night, went to the shops to pick up makings for some exotic drink she wanted to share with the group. Look, you're headed home soon, aren't you? I mean… well, your bloody 'home away from home', right?"

Molly smiled, though it had a worried edge. "I can leave now, I think. It's slow and Mike won't mind."

"That'd be great," John said, sounding relieved. "Not that Sherlock's… I mean… it's going well, of course… but…"

"I know, John. I'll leave right now."

That mixture of alarm and guilt was all too understandable, she thought as she gathered her things. Sherlock's recovery from his latest bout of drug addiction _for a case_ \- the Culverton Smith debacle - was progressing almost too smoothly.

The whole thing had also been _for John_ , of course, per Mary's posthumous instructions - Molly had seen the DVD and it still made her inclined to spit nails. _Go to hell_ , indeed. She loved Mary, in spite of everything, and John had certainly needed help of some kind. But Mary must have realized how Sherlock would interpret such a message, and that Molly's heart would again be ripped asunder between anger and love.

Thankfully, the worst of the physical effects of withdrawal were once again a thing of the past, and in other ways, very _significant_ ways, Sherlock seemed to be a changed man. He seemed both more serious and more lighthearted. More considerate of others, yet strangely negligent of his own _amour-propre._ She smiled as she thought of him as he'd appeared last week, on his birthday, wearing The Hat and a fond smile as he'd walked into the bakery, a bemused John trailing behind.

Mary's death, Sherlock's obvious love for his goddaughter, and his increased awareness of the value of his friends' faithful support might account for the changes, of course. Yet even so, neither John nor Molly could quite believe it would last.

They'd been keeping very close watch over him, along with Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. Mycroft was involved, too, and even his parents, though from a discreet distance. The seven of them had actually met to strategize when Sherlock was still in hospital (he'd wanted to be released as soon as Smith was arrested, of course, but before he could get too worked up about it, Molly had proposed a transfer to Bart's, where she could easily visit him and monitor his care, a suggestion to which he'd deigned to acquiesce with only minimal sulking). Mr. Holmes senior had seemed to have no doubts of his youngest son's ability to overcome the latest of his "troubles", but the rest of them hadn't been so sure, and "Mummy" wished to be kept abreast of any glitch or setback, though she agreed that it wouldn't do to "badger him".

From various sardonic looks and comments, Molly was almost certain that Sherlock was aware not only that they'd all met to confer, but that the four friends who were actually on Sherlock Watch reported regularly to his brother and parents. However, to Molly's great relief, he never gave any indication that he actually minded their concern.

A changed man, indeed.

All these thoughts and memories roiled about in her head as she left Barts and made her way to Baker Street after catching a cab with the strange ease to which she was becoming accustomed (Sherlock's doing, or Mycroft's? It hardly mattered, they were both capable of a charmingly old-fashioned chivalry, for their love of her, though she still lived in hope that Sherlock's love had rather less of the sisterly about it than did his brother's).

Her 'home away from home', as John had said, and it really seemed like it as the cab rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the familiar facade, just now bathed in the golden light of sunset.

She'd seen 221B so many times like this, lately, coming here to watch over Sherlock night after night as she had. Sleepless nights, some of them. Restless nights that had seen them prowling the streets of London on long walks (once they'd stopped by the Thames, near the Hungerford Bridge, and he'd gone quiet, looking out over the river, and then at a bench nearby, frowning, until he'd suddenly shaken off the moment, picked up her hand and tucked it in his arm, keeping her close to him all the way back to 221B). And lately, _restful_ nights, as his body and mind had begun to truly heal.

She let herself into the building and quietly closed the door behind her. Breathed in the familiar scents of old wood and cleaning products (Mrs. Hudson was diligent, her bad hip notwithstanding). Quietly ascended the steps (avoiding the one that creaked, as was her habit). The door to the flat stood open, and she paused at the threshold a moment, looking.

They were asleep on the sofa. Sherlock at full length on his back, Rosie curled on his chest. One of her tiny hands was gripping the edge of his dressing gown and she was snoring softly.

Molly's heart seemed to swell. Tears threatened, and a smile, too. She bit her lip.

And then Sherlock's eyes opened, and he did smile, rather sleepily, as he turned his head to see her there.

He gave a sort of nod, subtly beckoning, and she went to him and crouched beside him. She whispered, "John thought you might need help, but it looks as though you have her well in hand."

"Just got her down for a nap a few minutes ago. Come lie with us. A threesome." His eyes laughed.

Her brows rose at the remark, but she smirked, too. "All right, I will."

She stood, divested herself of her bag, coat, and shoes over by "John's Chair", then came back. "Move over a bit."

"Climb over to the inside," he told her.

She gave a huff of impatience, but with infinite stealth she complied. There was plenty of room, he had only to move a very little toward the edge, and soon Molly was lying beside him, stretched out against the back of the sofa. Rosie roused very slightly, then settled between them. They slept.

Or Rosie and Molly slept.

It was months before she learned Sherlock had not, in fact, slept. It was when John was saying to the wedding guests, "I knew when I came back and saw them there that Sherlock was for it, you don't look that contented, sleep that peacefully, for anything less," and Sherlock replied, "You're wrong, as usual, John, I wasn't asleep, I might have been resting my eyes, occasionally, but most of the time I was watching Molly and wondering how it would be if that baby were _our_ child - which led me to wondering about _other things_ , of course."

"And which other things might those've been?" Greg Lestrade piped up, teasing, and then grinning as a tinge of color mounted Sherlock's cheeks.

But Molly slipped her white satin-clad arm beneath the pearl grey broadcloth adorning her new husband's and replied, "Why, he wondered how it would be were this to be just _home_ , of course, rather than my 'home away from home'."

And Sherlock looked down at her with a grateful, crooked smile and said, softly, "Exactly so, my love."

~.~


	25. Indisposé

_**~ Indisposé ~**_

 _For the 'Life' prompt_

* * *

They had been lovers for less than a fortnight (and what a fortnight it had been!) when Molly was struck down.

 **You might want to stay at Baker St tonight. I'm afraid it's that time of the month. - MHx**

 **Clarify. - SH**

 **Indisposé. - MH**

 **As my mother would say. - MH**

 **? - SH**

 **Surfing the Crimson Wave. - MH**

 **? - SH**

At that point Sherlock's ringtone blared from her mobile and Molly groaned.

She'd managed to work a full day, in spite of the worst onslaught she'd had in ages (and she could not help wondering if their (delightful, vigorous, gratifyingly frequent) activities over the past two weeks had something to do with that), relying on massive doses of hot sugared tea and ibuprofen to see her through. Now, however, she was finally home and in bed with a heat pad pressed to her tummy and, having the next day off, all she wanted to do was try to sleep for the next thirty-six hours.

However, since Sherlock was concerned, and apparently confused enough by her euphemisms to actually initiate a phone call, it was obvious that some explanation was required.

Molly steeled herself and jabbed the screen. "Sherlock."

"Do you mean you're menstruating?"

She sighed, both relieved and frustrated, and unfortunately her voice actually broke as she replied, "Yes, and it's horrid, and you'd better just stay away for a couple of days, alright?"

"No, it's not alright! You don't usually have such a difficult time, your cycle's been more or less like clockwork for years, barely slows you down."

"How do you bloody _know_ that?" she snapped, then considered the source. "No, never mind, I don't want to know."

"Ha! _Bloody._ Though I don't suppose you were trying to be amusing."

"Not in the least," she snapped.

"Hmm. Right. Look, let me come over and see if I can help. I've done a bit of research-"

"What?" she exclaimed in disbelief - and then thought, _Of course he has, you idiot, who do you think you've taken up with, it's not like he's a NORMAL boyfriend..._

"With the change in our relationship I felt that it behooved me to gain a thorough knowledge of a process that is bound to affect our day to day existence at least one week per month, taking into consideration the various elements of premenstrual syndrome - mood swings, weight gain, breast tenderness, etcetera - as well as the usual four to five days of your period."

Molly groaned again, and wondered if she'd made a grave mistake, should have severed all ties at "I love you" and moved to Timbuktu. Or China. Or the moon.

"Molly, you won't really mind if I come over, will you? I can help! I have a whole list of remedies to try-"

"I'm not an experiment!" she half shouted, her voice edged with both tears and helpless laughter.

There was a pause. Then…

"I know you're not, sweetheart."

Molly bit her lip, and felt a tear slip down her temple, into her messy hair.

She said, in little more than a whisper, "Yes. Come over then. But don't say I didn't warn you."

 **o-o-o**

Some twenty-four hours later, Molly roused slowly from a long afternoon nap to find Sherlock sleepily kissing the back of her neck. He was wrapped around her, his arm and hand protective about her middle, and she could feel him beginning to smile.

"Better?" he asked.

She was. So much better. Thanks to research, tender regard, and a quite amazing lack of squeamishness.

She caught his hand in hers and drew it up to kiss each of his fingers. Then she scooted about, turning over to face him. Reached up to lay her hand against his cheek (his eyes closed briefly as he moved to kiss the heel of her hand), then brushed the messy curls away from his beautiful eyes. "You, sir," she said, just a trifle breathlessly, "are a strange and wonderful creature."

"Am I?" he replied, the beloved tone of his voice making her shiver. "Then there are a pair of us."

She smiled. "I love you."

The smile was returned in spades as he replied, "I know," and kissed her.

~.~


	26. The Kensington House

_**~ The Kensington House ~**_

 _For the 'Where?' prompt_

* * *

There was something amiss. Sherlock knew it as soon as he laid eyes on his wife, on returning to 221B earlier than his text that afternoon had originally estimated. Molly was very happy to see him, but there was something around her eyes, and in her smile, and in her embrace when she rose from the dinner table and came round to greet him. The baby must have been put to bed already, but the three older children were their usual selves, each of them vying for attention and yammering on when Sherlock was frowning with narrowed eyes, striving for wordless communication with their mother.

But then Jon popped up with, "Oh, and Lady Smallwood came to visit today, she walked in just when we'd started playing pirates!"

And Will laughed. "Yes, we were bashing about with our swords, even Daisy. And Lexie was _helping_ Mum with the laundry, so the place was a complete tip! I think Lady Smallwood was pretty shocked, she didn't stay for tea or anything-"

"But Daddy!" Daisy broke in, tugging with some violence on the sleeve of his Belstaff. "She asked us to dinner tomorrow - _all_ of us, not just you and Mummy. At her beautiful house! May we go, _pleeeease?_ "

Sherlock pried Daisy's little hand from his coat and gave it a squeeze, though he raised a brow at Molly's expression. "Is that what it is?"

He saw that she was tempted to brush it off, but then she gave a rueful chuckle. "Well, yes, a bit. Not that I blame the children! If it hadn't been pouring buckets all day, we could have gone out somewhere, a museum and the park perhaps. But with Lexie barely on the mend from that virus..."

"Yes, the weather was far too cold," Sherlock agreed. "It's ridiculous for the beginning of May, and particularly inconvenient on a day when these tiresome brats are out of school and must be kept occupied lest they tear the place apart." The _tiresome brats_ merely laughed at this, and hugged him, and he couldn't help smirking. But he said to Molly, "Not the best way to spend your day off. I'm sorry I wasn't able to stay and help. "

"Greg needed you," Molly shrugged. "And we managed - though I believe Will was right about Alicia being shocked. Mrs. Hudson let her in and we didn't hear her coming up the stairs, so there was no time to put things to rights. But we can discuss this later, if you like. I believe your greedy sons have left you at least a few scraps of dinner! Come sit down."

But Daisy, dissatisfied at this put-off, said, "But Mummy, Daddy, can we go tomorrow? If we _promise_ to be good?"

The thought of his children on the loose in Alicia Smallwood's elegant Kensington mansion was enough to strike dismay into the heart of a stronger man than Sherlock Holmes, promises or no. But Molly reiterated in her "Mummy's Serious" tone, "Your father and I will discuss it later!" and Daisy sighed, dramatically sulky as only a four year old - _his_ four year old - could be, but ultimately accepting the delay without further complaint.

 **o-o-o**

Alicia might be known as Lady Smallwood, Associate of the British Government, but she was also very much a woman and a mother, and was not at all impervious to the sight of three of the four Holmes urchins, all dressed to the nines and fairly dancing with anticipation of a high treat as they made their way into the gate and up the front walk, their wary but resigned parents in tow.

"No running! And remember: your _best manners_ ," Molly was heard to say, probably for the tenth time.

Alicia chuckled as Mycroft came up beside her at the door and took her hand in his.

"Let's hope you're still amused two hours from now," he murmured.

"Oh, hush," she said, giving him a severe look. "You know you love them to pieces."

Mycroft gave a sigh of resignation. "I do, but I prefer them in small doses, rather than _en masse_."

Alicia chuckled at that. "They'll be _fine_." She turned back to greet Daisy as the little girl cast off restraint and flitted ahead, up the walkway.

"Look at my new dress, Aunt Alicia!" she exclaimed, as she bounced up the few marble steps to the wide porch. She stopped to smooth the skirt of the pink satin confection she was wearing. "Isn't it lovely?"

"My dear, you look ravishing," Alicia assured her, bending down to kiss her cheek.

Daisy sweetly returned the favor, and then said, brightly, "Hello, Uncle Mycroft! We're here!"

"So I see," said Mycroft, the laughter in his voice almost entirely free of disapprobation.

"Look, lads!" said Sherlock, too brightly, as the rest of the family approached in Daisy's wake. "Uncle Mycroft is here, too! Now we're _guaranteed_ a fine selection of cake!"

Alicia narrowed her eyes at Mycroft's brother but refrained from comment as Molly had the matter in hand with raised brows and a useful jab with her elbow.

Unfortunately, he only simpered at Molly before turning his teasing gaze on his brother again. "Things _must_ be slow at the office with both of you able to be here," he remarked.

"An accurate observation," said Mycroft, "and a fact for which we must all be thankful. Boys! You look very smart - and uncomfortable. I thought school was out several hours ago."

"We had our music lessons just before we came," Jon said, wrinkling his nose. "Madame insists we dress like _gentlemen_."

"Ah, so I recall now, and very proper, too," said Mycroft with approval, "though if your parents permit you might at least remove your ties - God knows your father hasn't worn one in years. Molly, my dear, you look as ravishing as your daughter."

Molly, who wore a lacy white cardigan over a light blue sheath that prettily accentuated her still-slender figure, said warmly, "It's good to see you, Mycroft."

"And you," said Mycroft, with real sincerely, smiling down at his sister-in-law.

"Alicia," said Sherlock. "You're looking well."

Alicia raised a brow. "Thank you," she said, then silently mouthed one word at him: _Behave!_

He made no verbal reply, just assumed a comically wounded expression and placed his hand over his heart.

Alicia rolled her eyes and and turned back to the little boys. "I see that you've brought along your violin, Jon, and we've just had the piano in the drawing room re-tuned. Will you two favor us with your latest pieces?"

"Yes!" said Jon with alacrity, and Will smiled, too, his eyes lighting at the prospect of sitting down behind Alicia's beautiful baby grand. "But can we play in the back garden after?"

Alicia laughed, remembering the astoundingly grubby but eminently satisfied look of the three the last time they'd been allowed the run of the back garden. The lawn and shrubbery were quite extensive for a home situated in the middle of London - which was, of course, one reason for tonight's invitation. Alicia said, "If your parents permit, yes, but you should probably wait until after we've had dinner. Now come in, all of you, and let's have some music!"

 **o-o-o**

The children had been on their best behavior, both prior to dinner and throughout the rather formal meal, sufficiently awestruck by their surroundings to be quieter and more careful than usual, and actually put into use the manners they'd been taught. Now they had been released to play in the back garden while the light lasted, much to Molly's relief. The house was not at all "childproof", for Alicia's three children were grown and had been gone a dozen years or more. None of the three had elected to settle in the noisy bustle and excitement of London and now rarely even visited the metropolis. Alicia's eldest, the current Lord Smallwood, had settled at the country estate with his wife and son, shortly after the death of his father; her younger son had emigrated to Australia in his early twenties and was still gainfully employed in the music industry when he wasn't indulging in some extreme sport or other, to which his mother was forced to turn a blind eye or go mad with worry; and the daughter of the family had married a Scots physician and was settled in a picturesque little town outside Edinburgh, busily raising a pair of ginger-haired twin girls and apparently more than content with rural life.

"It's a shame your children don't care for the city," Molly commiserated, as Alicia stepped up beside her, near the window where she had been surreptitiously keeping an eye on her brood. "You must miss them."

Alicia gave a little shrug, though she was smiling as she looked out at the children in the garden. "Oh, I don't know. It gives one a good reason to indulge in frequent holidays. Mycroft and I were in Scotland just last weekend, for example - Allison and Amabel are growing up so quickly! And I believe it won't be long before they and their cousins - my oldest boy's children - will be able to come visit us in London, whether their parents accompany them or not."

Molly smiled. "That _will_ be an event."

"To be sure. They're already anxious to meet their little Holmes cousins." But then Alicia chuckled. "Heavens, I can just see - and hear - Mycroft."

Molly gave a small snort of laughter. "We'll have to get him a bottle of his favorite wine for the occasion. Or even brandy! But he's been very welcoming to _our_ little savages this evening. I was a bit surprised you dared to invite us, after that display at Baker Street yesterday. Not our finest moment."

"Don't be absurd," said Alicia. "Entirely understandable under the circumstances! And there's not a mean-spirited bone among the lot of them. Really, Molly, you've done an amazing job with them."

"Well, thank you, but Sherlock has a great deal to do with it, too, you know. He's a wonderful father."

"Marriage and fatherhood seem to have been the making of him, certainly," Alicia agreed. "Gave him something to think about other than his beautiful, brilliant self, which was exactly what he needed. Still, who would have guessed, nine years ago?"

"Well… _I_ did," Molly said with a smile.

"So you did." Alicia turned to Molly and considered her thoughtfully for a few moments, and finally Molly raised an inquiring brow. Alicia said, as if in reply. "Speaking of yesterday… not that _that_ has anything to do with it, really, it merely reminded me _why…_ well… I assure you I've had it in mind for months..."

Amused at this uncharacteristic rambling, Molly asked,. "Alicia, are you quite alright? _What_ did you have in mind?"

Alicia took a deep breath through her nose, steadying herself, then glanced around before meeting Molly's eyes again. "Do you like this house?"

Molly laughed. "Well, of course. How could one not?"

"Yes. Well. I like it, too. But it wants… a _family_. It was made for a family, all those years ago, and of course it was a splendid home for mine when the children were growing up, but… they've been gone a long time, now. And my husband… well. In any case, I was wondering… would you and Sherlock like to have it?"

Molly stared, gave a choking exclamation of " _What?_ Alicia, you-"

"Rent free, of course," Alicia interrupted, as though Molly hadn't spoken. "Though there is still the upkeep - I use a service now, and they are most efficient, if a trifle costly, though with the children you might want to hire some staff - not necessarily live-in, though there is certainly room, there are quarters for at least two or three persons off the kitchen. And there are the taxes. But I'm given to understand the two of you could well afford those things and still keep Baker Street as an office for Sherlock, and as a second… ah… bolthole? Guest house? In any case, I don't suppose you'd care to give it up. You have done such a lovely job renovating it since you and Sherlock married and the children began to arrive."

"Alicia! You cannot be serious!"

"I am, though." A little smile tugged at Alicia's lips. "I have finally acquiesced to Mycroft's wishes and consented to move into his house. There is some refurbishment already being done there in preparation."

"Oh!" Molly smiled. "That's wonderful! Are you… that is-"

"I have not yet agreed to marry him. We are still in negotiations on that point."

Molly laughed. "Oh, Alicia, you are… _the completest thing_. To keep The British Government on a lead for all these years…"

Alicia chuckled, and looked quite smug. But she said, "So. Will you discuss it with Sherlock? Since little Alexandra came along it is all too apparent to those who love you that 221B Baker Street will soon be filled to bursting. Here there are enough bedrooms for each of your children to have his or her own with plenty left over for guests, a playroom, an office. I won't be taking much of the furniture, just a few favorite pieces, and you can keep what you like, and replace the rest at your leisure. Daisy, and even the boys might like to pick out new furnishings for their bedrooms, for example. They still share a room at 221B, I believe?"

"Yes," said Molly, feeling quite dazed. "John's old bedroom, though they're getting so big… and we've been in a quandary about Lexie, now that she is getting older. She can't stay in our room much longer."

"And here she won't have to!" Alicia said cheerily. "There is a lovely little bedroom that would be perfect for her, just across from the master suite."

"The master suite!" Molly repeated, even more dazed. Not that she and Sherlock had not been blissfully happy in his bedroom… well, _their_ bedroom, for almost a decade now. But still…

"Would you like to come upstairs and take a look around? And I believe Mycroft has been presenting the proposal to Sherlock while we've been talking, and I haven't heard any explosions. I take it as a good sign, don't you?"

"Oh, Heavens. I don't know what to say, Alicia. Why… _why?_ "

"I don't want to sell - the property just gets more and more valuable. But I don't want it to sit vacant, either. And lease it to strangers? I… I just don't think I could do it. Think of it this way: you and Sherlock will be doing me a great favor." Alicia laughed again at Molly's apparently obvious bewilderment. "Come! Pull yourself together. The children will be fine out in the garden for half an hour. Let's go see what Sherlock thinks, and the two of you can take a look at the rooms upstairs - go all over the house, in fact, so you can make an informed decision."

 **o-o-o**

It was after midnight and he and Molly were in bed, but not sleeping. Far from it. They were both lying on their backs, staring at the deeply shadowed ceiling. Holding hands. Still both astounded at the way their world was being overturned.

Sherlock thought one minute that he couldn't do it, then the next he remembered that he would not be _leaving_ 221B, precisely - he would still spend a great deal of time there. And Baker Street was just as close to the boys' school as the Kensington house. He could imagine his sons racing over when class let out, if he were not out on some case; doing their homework or playing until he should be ready to journey home.

Home.

They could still practice their music here, after school - Mrs. Hudson would grieve for it, else.

Ah, Hudders. What would she say to all this? She was getting on in years, of course. Didn't make the journey up the stairs with tea and scones nearly as often lately. Visited her sister in Devon more, though that lady's health was failing rapidly, from what he gathered. That would be a blow and no mistake. And it might not be long before she herself… well. Time was a cruel master to all, even their timeless landlady ( _Not your housekeeper!_ \- he grinned briefly in the black night).

There'd be room at the Kensington house for her, too, if it came to that.

Ten bedrooms. Lord. Not quite as bad as Musgrave, but along those lines.

They would have to acquire a housekeeper.

And a second violin for Jon to keep at 221B. The spinet could stay, since Mycroft had a fine instrument of his own and Alicia had told them she was content to leave her baby grand with the House. William would like that - and Molly. And the girls, eventually. Daisy was nearly old enough to begin lessons already.

But… it still hurt to think of leaving. After all the work they'd put into 221B (and C) to create a suitable environment for their growing family. Of course, they had not realized just how _much_ their family would grow when they'd begun the renovations.

Four children. Who would have thought it, a decade back? And yet here they were with a houseful - and nothing yet done to prohibit a potential fifth. They'd have to think seriously about that, or risk another surprise. Alexandra had been a delightful one, to be sure, but _five children?_ It seemed excessive, to put it mildly.

Though his parents wouldn't mind. They reveled in their role, Mummy dismissing the bother with a wave of her hand, and merely hiring some neighbors' daughters, lively teenaged girls, to help out when Will, Jon, and Daisy were to stay more than a night or two. And Lexie, soon enough.

And he gave a slight snort of laughter at the thought of denying his _own_ happiness.

"What?" Molly whispered, turning her head on the pillow to peer at him, squeezing his hand.

He squeezed back. "I am… _counting my blessings_ , I suppose."

She let go of his hand and turned onto her side to face him, fingers rather shyly smoothing the soft material of the ancient T-shirt he wore. She said, "Do you think the Kensington house would enhance them?"

"I think it might. I think we'd be fools not to accept. Our children are not going to stop growing."

She chuckled. "No! Though sometimes I wish…"

"What? That time would stop?" He moved to face her and put his hand on her waist.

"Yes," she said, and, closing the final gap, kissed him.

He smiled beneath the kiss, bittersweet.

He'd always known there were two sides of the coin called love, which was why he'd shied away from it for so many years, and even this issue, the inexorable march of time, was an ever-present weight. Pain was _always_ part of the joy - and perhaps made the joy all the sweeter.

Doors closing.

And others opening, down the way.

"I'm a lucky man," he whispered, when he could.

"You are," she whispered back. "And a brave one, too."

But he laughed softly at that, knowing that it was only she who allowed him to be so. Physical courage had never been an issue, and he had never lacked confidence in his intellectual abilities. But love… the one thing that truly mattered… that had required assistance.

The loyalty and perception and faith of one Molly Hooper had been necessary to complete him.

He reached up and brushed the auburn hair back behind the perfect pale pink shell of her ear, seeing the colors in his mind's eye, even in the shadows.

How long had it been since they'd made love in the clear light of morning, or through a long, golden afternoon?

And yet, the darkness enhanced one's other senses.

Touch.

Smell.

Taste.

"I love you," he replied, still whispering.

"I know," she whispered back.

And, sensing his need, she gave herself to him once again, in that well-practiced way she had… skill… infinite tenderness… an old comfort…

Yet somehow, she could still surprise him… somehow it was always, _always_ new.

 **o-o-o**

Mycroft was stuck in his office, but Alicia was able to escape for a few hours on the evening of the Big Move, accepting the invitation to join his brother's family, John and Rosie Watson, and Greg Lestrade for a celebratory dinner of Thai take-away, and to see the changes that had been wrought at the Kensington house.

Alicia had moved out nearly two months before to facilitate matters, and was happier living with Mycroft than she had imagined possible - and he seemed content, too. He had twice reiterated his proposal that they should marry, and she had almost accepted the last time. Perhaps it would _not_ needlessly complicate their lives. Perhaps she was making too much of a fuss over it. She knew many women who were on their third or even fourth marriage - and most of them were divorcees, a situation far more difficult than her own. Being a widow, with her children grown and getting on with their lives, really did simplify matters.

She was still mulling over this subject as she arrived at her former residence, and did not move on until she'd exited the car and had entered the front gate. Walking up to the door, however, she noticed how neat the small front garden looked, with three new rose bushes, a new bed of pansies beside the porch, and the bits of lawn very well-tended. The front door had been repainted, too, a shiny black, and it now sported a knocker very similar to the one on the door of 221B Baker Street.

She used the knocker in the manner for which it was intended, and it wasn't more than twenty seconds before the door was thrown open by Jon, with Daisy just behind.

"Aunt Alicia!" said Jon - or half-shouted, really. "Wait till you see my bed! It's even better than it looked in the shop!"

"She has to see _my_ room first!" cried Daisy in the tone of a four year old who'd gone without her nap _and_ reached the limit of her patience with her older brother. She gripped Jon's jumper with both hands and tried to pull him out of her way with some violence.

But Sherlock had apparently heard Alicia's knock, too and was coming up just behind the children. Seeing what was toward, he snapped, " _Enough!_ " in so sharp a tone that Alicia gave a little start herself, and the children turned to him wide-eyed.

Jon was carefully silent. Daisy, however, began to whinge, "But Daddy! Jon-"

" _But Daisy_ ," Sherlock interrupted, bending down to look her in the eye. "You've been skating on thin ice for the last hour and if you utter one more _word_ you'll find yourself staring at the most boring corner I can find in this house. _Alone._ Until _I_ say you can move, _not_ your mother or Uncle John. _Do you understand?_ "

Alicia tensed, fearful that the little girl would be rash enough to put her father to the test. But, thankfully, she did not. Daisy merely lowered her gaze, lip quivering.

Sherlock straightened to face Alicia, "Welcome to the madhouse."

Alicia replied, sympathetically, "Long day?"

"My God, you've no idea. Come into the dining room," he said, leading the way. "The kitchen's set up, and the bedrooms - and they do look like something out of Parenting Magazine. But the tour can wait. We were just setting out dinner."

"I'm not hungry," came a tiny, discontented voice from behind them.

" _Shut it!_ " came Jon's hiss, just as Alicia glanced over her shoulder. Jon was giving Daisy's arm a surreptitious squeeze in warning, even as he favored Alicia with an innocent smile.

Sherlock wisely feigned deafness and led the way into the dining room.

 **o-o-o**

Less than an hour later, John and Rosie had departed, Sherlock was discussing a case with Greg over some brandy, and Molly led the way up the staircase, carrying little Alexandra, Will and Jon racing ahead, and Alicia Smallwood bringing up the rear, hand in hand with a now smiling Daisy.

Daisy's smiles were in strong contrast to the pout she'd maintained throughout dinner, much to her father's annoyance. Molly, tired as she was, had been rather amused, however, and had quietly reminded Sherlock that his daughter came by her pout honestly, and the avowed lack of hunger, too. John and Greg would have picked up on this, both friends hinting at numerous recollections of a certain consulting detective who'd been renowned for his petulance in the past, but they'd cut the teasing short, not because of Sherlock's glare, but in consideration of the fact that Will, Jon, and Rosie had been all ears.

But it wasn't hard to understand why Daisy and her brothers were anxious to show off their new bedrooms. Lady Smallwood had accompanied them when they'd all gone furniture shopping a few weeks ago, and now at last she would see the results.

Alicia had convinced Daisy that they should "save the best for last", so Will's room was shown first. He'd opted to keep the simple and elegant cherry furniture already in the room, only enhancing the collection with a new roll top desk to match. There were several movie posters on the walls, Star Wars, Avengers, and the like, and the framed print of the periodic table that had hung in Sherlock's room for so many years held pride of place above his new desk. All the bedrooms had walk-in wardrobes and Will's now held stacks of board games and neatly organized bins of Legos, action figures, and other small toys. Molly said to Alicia, "Admire it now - it's not likely to look this tidy for long!", but Will, who was now ten and feeling very grown up as the eldest, said, "It will if I can keep the brats from destroying it!"

Jon retorted, "Who needs _your_ old stuff? Come on and see mine, Aunt Alicia!"

Jon, too, had chosen a desk for homework and art projects, but had also fallen in love with a sturdy bed frame designed to look like a race car. Much to his delighted surprise, his mother had approved the purchase, though his father had been less pleased with the idea when he'd been informed. However, when the bed had arrived and Sherlock had seen its beauty and quality, he had become much more enthusiastic. He and Jon had run with the theme, and the walls were now adorned with a number of pictures and posters of race cars, and Sherlock had installed shelves for Jon's collection of model cars. His beloved trains were relegated to the wardrobe, but Alicia noted that his old Thomas the Tank cuddle pillow was waiting for him on the new bed.

Daisy's room was last, and certainly by far the best, at least in Daisy's opinion. The entire room had been redone in pink: pink furniture with lovely hand-painted flowers; fuzzy pink throw rugs; gauzy pink drapes on the window and canopied four-poster bed; and tiny pink rosebuds were patterned over the newly installed wallpaper. It might have been overwhelming, but Molly had insisted on using paler shades of pink along with a judicious use of white, and the result was really quite soothing.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Alicia, taking it in. "It looks rather as though it dropped from Heaven!"

Molly chuckled. "Now all it needs is an angel to take care of it!"

"That's me!" Daisy piped up.

"Hmmm," said Molly doubtfully. "I don't know… there _was_ that little display at the dinner table. An angel would not have behaved so - or at least she would have apologized to her father for giving into her weariness, even after a long day of moving house."

Daisy looked between Molly and Lady Smallwood uncertainly as she worked this out, but then, coming to a decision, exclaimed, "I'll be right back!" She ran from the room and could presently be heard yelling, " _Daddy! Daddy!_ " as she pounded down the stairs.

 **o-o-o**

At four in the morning, Sherlock was lying abed, caught up in a comfortable and eminently satisfied tangle with the wife of his bosom, the two of them having inaugurated the Kensington house in the best way imaginable, after recruiting their strength with a few hours' sleep.

" _Now_ it's on its way to being home," Sherlock murmured into Molly's ear.

And she laughed, and turned her face to his, and kissed him. "I love you," she said.

"I know," he returned with a smile.

There were a great many more kisses, and some happy sighs, and cuddling: plenty of the most delightful clichés. But presently Molly extricated herself with a whispered, "Have to use the loo!" and Sherlock lay back contentedly against the pillows, stared at the shadowed ceiling, and thought once again what a lucky man he was.

He must have started drowsing again, for suddenly Molly was there, whispering his name again. "Hmm?" he said, opening his eyes. The light was dim, but he could see she'd put on her dressing gown.

"Get up for a minute!" she said softly. "You have to see the children!"

He frowned, but did as she asked, throwing on his own dressing gown and padding after her over the thick carpet, following her out the door.

"Are they alright?" he asked. "Lexie's still asleep, isn't she?"

"Yes. It's the others. Come see."

She didn't pause at Daisy's half open door, nor at Jon's, but went straight over to Will's room and motioned for him to peek in - and there they were, all three of them curled up together in Will's big bed, Daisy in the middle, and all of them sound asleep.

Sherlock turned to Molly and made a silent pantomime of outrage. "Tell me again why we needed to move here? We might just as well be back at Baker Street!"

But Molly shook her head, grinning. "They'll get used to it. But now it's really home for them, too. Don't you see?"

There was nothing for it. He had to take her in his arms and kiss her again. "I love you, Mrs. Holmes," he said finally.

"I love you, too," she returned, a trifle breathless.

The proper exchange.

He took her hand up, said, "Come, then," and, in the lovely silence before dawn, he led her back to bed.

~.~


End file.
